100 Prompts SSSS
by Ness Frost
Summary: In which I try my hand at the... *gulp* ...100 prompts NaNo. A collection of shorts, all for SSSS! Gen unless otherwise noted, no warnings unless otherwise noted.
1. Introduction

**Prompt:** Introduction

 **Characters:** Mikkel, Sigrun

* * *

Their new captain did not impress him, however impressed she might be with herself. She was loud. She was clueless about (or deliberately ignored) any and all social cues, inflicting her shouting and her uninvited backslaps on everyone else whether they were welcome or not. As a matter of fact, she didn't even seem to be interested in learning about her own team.

"Aren't you going to read them?" he asked, appalled, when she tossed the personnel files to the side with barely a glance.

"Can't read Icelandic," she dismissed him in turn, waving away his concerns with a flick of her hand as if shooing an annoying insect. "Besides," she added as an afterthought, "I hate reading."

This did not improve his opinion of her. She wasn't even going to ask their employers to provide duplicates in Norwegian? Besides, what sort of military employee signed up to lead an international team when she couldn't even be bothered to learn Icelandic? Or maybe (here he entertained himself with his own private joke), she was trying to cover for the fact that she couldn't _read_ , at all.

Needless to say, he made a point of committing all of the files to memory well before the arrival of the rest of the team.

Common sense told him to back out of this mission entirely, but that wasn't an option. That wouldn't stop him from having words with the man who, with the entirety of the Norwegian army at his disposal, had still thought it a good idea to put _her_ in charge.

"She's an idiot," he said to Trond, unprompted, when next her name came up in conversation.

Gallingly, Trond only snorted. "I fail to see how that's a count against her."

Well, he thought, resigned, at least it wasn't any worse than what he'd dealt with before. If he didn't want them all to die in the Silent World, he'd probably end up having to do at least half of her job for her—and, if the experience levels of their junior crewmates were any indication, everyone else's as well.

One problem with that: she refused to _let_ him.

She was reckless. She pushed the scout to his limits, she pushed Emil out of his comfort zone, she pushed the entire crew into territory they didn't know was safe. She brought back junk, plastic cases and books about golf, ignoring all of his advice about being selective. Worse, whenever he tried to inject some common sense, she talked right over him. There was no way her timing wasn't deliberate—she _wanted_ him to know who was in charge.

Finally, after several days' worth of insults to everything from his combat skills to his ability to cook an edible meal, he reached his limit. What would she be eating, without him? Certainly far worse than "inedible sludge." For that matter, did she think she could have tended her own wounds? He certainly didn't.

The conflict between them had escalated. Now, it was nearing its breaking point. They might have managed a brief reconciliation, a truce, but it still stung that he'd pointed them in all the right directions, on his own initiative, yet had still needed _her_ support to go forward. He expected that they would have several more conflicts before they truly worked this out, if ever.

The Silent World had other plans.

That night, he watched her get thrown into icy water with a troll as big as their tank and still do everything right, not panic, call for a rope, see to it that the vulnerable members of the crew got to safety before she even considered her own. Then, the rope went slack in his hands, and he watched her get thrown _back_ into the water, watched her fight for her life against a monster that viciously tried to drown her every time she tried to take a breath.

He thought he would have to watch her die. Worse, the last thing he'd said to her outside of strict survival was a joke about his own insubordination, at her expense—a joke that now seemed to him to be in grossly bad taste.

Then, she surprised him again.

She made her own escape, just in time to stop him from doing something he would later be forced to admit would have been exceedingly stupid. She refused medical attention even though she was coughing too hard to speak, took seamless advantage of Emil's (for once) perfect timing, and took no rest until they were back at the tank and she had confirmed that everyone was safe.

Could _he_ have led half so well, had he been in her place?

That ceased to be a rhetorical question after she collapsed.

Icy water, near-drowning, an earlier fainting spell, reopened wounds: all had taken their toll. She started out shaking with cold but by the end of the next day was burning with fever, skin hottest to the touch around her wounded arm. He did what he could for her, removed her wet clothes and wrapped her in blankets; heated liquids, body heat; antiseptic, fresh stitches, clean bandages; medicine for infection, for fever, for pain…

She needed real help; she needed a _doctor_ , and all that she had was him. Nevertheless, he gave her what treatment he knew how to give, made her swallow as much hot broth as she would drink, held wet cloths to her forehead and neck while everyone else tiptoed around the tank and spoke in hushed voices. The authority he'd so long coveted hovered dauntingly in front of him all the while, a burden he now realized he didn't know how to shoulder.

He thought he'd learned his lesson about giving her due credit. As it turned out, he was once again proved wrong.

"Hey."

He blinked awake to find her staring back at him; he'd fallen asleep beside her, on the floor. Sweat soaked the bedding but her eyes were clear, unclouded by fever, and when he rested a hand against her forehead her skin had cooled back down to a normal temperature.

"Want to know something funny?" she continued as if she hadn't noticed his touch at all, as though she were picking up a conversation they'd left off only moments before. "I used to think you were a bit of a snob. Thought that the rest of us were somehow beneath you."

"Well." He allowed himself a small smile as he withdrew his hand, satisfied. "I suppose that I did."

"Yeah." She rolled over a bit, staring up at the roof. "Guess I could be a bit of a jerk too."

He considered his answer carefully. Denial would have been a lie and an insult to her apology, but neither did he want to risk their fragile peace with blunt affirmation.

"I suppose," he said at last, "that it's possible we've both been… a bit too honest."

She snorted at that. "Maybe we should give this another shot."

"Indeed." He held out a hand. "Pleased to meet you. My name is Mikkel Madsen, and I look forward to working with you."

"Sigrun Eide." For someone who'd spent the last three days in a high fever, her grip was surprisingly strong. "The same."


	2. Love

**Prompt:** Love

 **Characters:** Onni

 **Warning:** Brief mention of menstruation

* * *

 _Love is more than just a feeling_ , his father had once told him. _It's a commitment._ At the time, Onni hadn't understood those words.

He understood them now.

At sixteen, he'd lost not only his mother _and_ father, but his grandmother, aunt, and uncle as well. At sixteen, he'd fled to Keuruu with his ten-year-old sister and eight-year-old cousin, knowing that there was no one left to care for them but him.

Living on a military base brought hardships, but there were also small kindnesses: understanding when he showed up late for work because Lalli had been in one of his moods; Tuuri coming home with a new toy or even a precious rare sweet, things Onni could not afford to buy for her. There was help, as well: new clothes left on their doorstep when Lalli's wrists started to poke too far out of his sleeves, a few extra coins slipped into his pay, advice on getting a sick nine-year-old to drink when he didn't want to, a helpful if awkward talk from their old neighbor woman the day his sister had started bleeding and they'd both panicked. In the end, though, they were Onni's: his family, his responsibility, his commitment.

It wasn't the life that he would have chosen. Now that they were here, though, all he could do was raise them as he'd hoped their real parents would have wanted. He took that responsibility to heart, and he made sacrifices. He excused himself from going out drinking with his coworkers at the end of the day because Tuuri wanted to practice her Icelandic. He turned down dates because Lalli didn't like having strangers in their apartment. Even after Tuuri had moved on to Swedish and Lalli had moved out entirely, he had made no friends and started no romance: he was set in his ways, and besides, his family was all that he needed.

Somehow, he managed to miss the point when they stopped needing _him_.

Onni had vowed to protect them—but here Tuuri was, haring off into the Silent World and dragging Lalli along with her. If she'd tried to do the same thing as a child, he would have stopped her, would have been _obligated_ to stop her. His sister, however, was a child no longer: she was a woman grown, legally an adult, and Onni could no longer justify making her decisions for her.

As he stood watching on the pier long after the boat had faded into the night, he remembered what his mother had said to him in turn:

 _You can only commit yourself. Truly loving someone means knowing when to let them go._


	3. Light

**Prompt:** Light

 **Characters:** Michael, Signe

 **Ship:** Hints of Signe/Michael

 **Warning:** Animal experimentation

* * *

Signe was the one who figured it out.

"The shed," they'd said, when Michael had asked at breakfast whether anyone had seen her. He was then left to eat his breakfast by himself—farmers, as it turned out, rose far earlier than businessmen, and the chores would not wait.

Michael washed the dishes. He fed Magnus a few scraps. Then, he headed out to the shed to see what Signe was doing. Maybe he could help.

The door, when he tried it, was latched from the inside. "Don't come in yet!" she called when he knocked; her voice sounded strained. "Give me two more minutes!"

So he waited, and listened as a few clunks and whirrs sounded from the other side of the door, but at long last the door opened and she beckoned him in.

Signe's hair was in disarray, a breathing mask covering her face—she handed him one of his own, and wouldn't open the door to admit him until he put it on. "Don't touch anything."

"What have you been _doing_ in here?" Michael had little idea of what a farm shed was supposed to look like, but somehow he didn't think that it was supposed to be filled with glass cases, repurposed light fixtures, and wires running every which way.

"Trying to make myself useful." Magnus twined around her ankles, purring, and she scooped him into her arms with a smile. "Magnus has been helping me out. Haven't you, boy?" She tickled his chin.

"See this?" she continued, tapping a glass cage. Leaning in closer to look, Michael saw with a start that it housed an infected rat, teeth unnaturally elongated, skin peeling away from muscle, ribs crawling out of its chest. When the cage was disturbed, it began to throw itself against the glass, squealing viciously as its jaws lathered foam.

Immediately he recoiled. " _Why_ are you keeping that here?" he demanded, even as Magnus's lip curled up with a hiss.

"Looking for better ways to fight back." Signe pushed the cage to the side, and drew his attention to another one. Bracing himself for further horror, Michael leaned in and saw that it contained the corpse of yet another infected rat—in addition to five healthy mice.

"They've been in there with it for nearly a week now, since it was less than two hours dead. Not one of them has shown a single sign of infection. The colder the corpse is kept, the shorter the limit."

"You mean… you've been spending this whole time studying Rash?"

"Mm-hm. Hold this for me, would you?" Signe passed him a bulky black lamp, obviously not meant to be portable, jerry-rigged with wires sticking out every which way. "Now _this_ ," she nudged the cage so it was positioned in front of the lamp, "is why the infected don't come out during the day." She flicked the switch.

When the harsh bluish-white light fell over the poor rodent, it shrieked in pain and scrambled back into the far corner of the cage, as far away from the light as it could get. When Michael looked more closely, he saw that a few parts of his body were actually _smoking_. He only made it for a few more seconds before he flicked the switch off with shaking hands.

"Yeah." Signe pushed the cage away, gesturing for Michael to set down the lamp as she sank onto a nearby stool. "That's why the only ever come out at night—the light kills the pathogen. I've experimented with all different kinds of lamps, but nothing hurts them as much as UV."

Michael pulled up a stool for himself, rubbing his forehead. He was starting to wish he hadn't eaten. "So what are you going to do, now that you know?"

"Not sure." She gave a shaky laugh, and Michael saw that he wasn't the only one whose hands were trembling. "It's not like there are a whole lot of people around to share it with."

"I'm sure we'll think of some way to put it to good use. In the meantime, though, my sister tells me you haven't had any breakfast." He stood, and held out his hand. "Come on. I made sure to save you something."

So she stood, and took his offered hand, and let him wrap his arm around her shoulders as they both stepped back out into the light.

* * *

 **A/N:** Just a few guesses as to where Mikkel got some of his Rash expertise.


	4. Dark

**Prompt:** Dark

 **Character:** Leaftroll

 **Warning:** ...okay, so it's _technically_ no worse than the body horror that was _heavily_ implied in canon. But I do show the process of it happening in a bit more detail, and yes, I do it to a child.

* * *

You've always been afraid of the dark.

Even after you start itching all over and your throat feels like it's been scraped raw and you're coughing until you can barely breathe and you feel too hot and too cold at the same time, your greatest fear is still being left alone in a dark room. "You need to rest," Mommy says, but still leaves the nightlight on every time she leaves the room.

Whenever Mommy and Daddy come in to sit with you or bring you soup, they always wear masks. Once, you ask Daddy why he's dressed up like a dentist.

"It's to keep us from catching what you have." He chucks you under the chin. "After all, if we're sick too who's going to take care of you?" Though his voice sounds jovial, the smile does not reach his eyes.

The first time Mommy comes in without her mask on, you ask, "Aren't you going to get sick?"

Her smile is tired. "Daddy told me you didn't like the masks." She reaches up to scratch the back of her neck as she says it.

One night, your nightlight burns out.

For what seems like hours you lie curled up whimpering and shaking under your covers, cowering away from the monsters that are part imagination, part fever dream, and part something far scarier that you still can't name. At long last, though, you work up the courage to push off the covers and go to the crack of light that you can see under the door. Your legs don't want to hold you up anymore, and you can only crawl.

"…lied to us!" Daddy sounds angry—angry and desperate. "What's going to happen to our baby? What's going to happen to _you?_ " It's the first time you've ever heard him cry.

"There has to be something we can do. There _has_ to." Mommy sounds worn—like she doesn't really believe what she's saying.

The next day, your chest starts to hurt.

At first, it's only a dull ache, but by lunchtime it's so bad it brings you to tears. You can't eat, not even broth. Daddy lifts up your nightshirt, and sucks in a breath when he looks at your chest.

"We have to get help."

"From whom?" Mommy is standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame; red blotches are creeping up the left side of her face. "Copenhagen is—"

"The fort at Kastellet." He's wrapping you in a blanket, lifting you into his arms. "I heard they were working on some experimental medicine. The chances aren't good, but it's better than doing nothing."

The light sears your eyes when Daddy carries you out of the door. You squinch your eyes shut and bury your face in his chest, shaking with chills and still sobbing from the pain.

The agony in your chest keeps getting worse and worse. It feels like you're being stabbed over and over again, only from the inside, and you scream with pain.

"Hold on," Daddy pleads. "I'm going to get you help, you just need to hold on a little bit longer."

As much as the light hurt, when he carries you into a place that's darker you start shaking with fear. Shadows gather around you—the shadows of monsters. Daddy screams. Then, you're ripped from his arms as the dark encloses you forever.


	5. Seeking Solace

**Prompt:** Seeking Solace

 **Characters:** Reynir

* * *

This wasn't a nightmare.

Accidentally shipping himself to the Silent World in a food crate was almost too surreal to be real, and for the first couple of days, he'd half-convinced himself that it _was_ just a bad dream (even though he dreamed so seldom he couldn't ever remember having had a nightmare), and that any minute now he'd wake up safe in his own bed in wonderful, safe, boring Iceland. He'd tell his parents about it at breakfast, and they'd all have a laugh together after they'd finished gasping in horror at even the thought that he'd do something so stupid.

Of course, Reynir had known all along that it was a fantasy, but now he could no longer entertain it even the tiniest bit. Now, he was sure that it was _real_.

Yesterday, he'd only just begun to learn how dangerous the Silent World was. One minute he'd been trying to figure out why Kitty was so agitated; the next, a troll was leaping out of the snow trying to eat his face. Sigrun had thrown herself between them and Mikkel had yanked him out of the way, and though Reynir hadn't been hurt, he'd seen Sigrun's arm after and _oh sweet Odin a few more centimeters and that would have been him_. Still, it had only been a close call, and like a small child that thinks its parents can save it from any monster, Reynir had naively believed that the crew he'd landed with could deal with whatever threats the Silent World had to offer.

Now, there was no close call. There was no "almost." Sigrun, Mikkel, and the Swede whose name he didn't even know yet were _gone_ , still back at the water fighting what had looked like an underwater giant—and the last he had seen, the giant was winning. Tuuri had stopped the tank, against orders, saying that they should wait for the others to catch up, but Reynir didn't need her to tell him that it wasn't a matter of _when_ they would catch up—it was a matter of _if_. Until then, he was alone with Tuuri and her sleeping cousin, and neither of them knew what to do.

They didn't talk. Tuuri checked the side mirror every few seconds, returning to lean against the steering wheel with a sigh before her eyes flicked back to the mirror as if she thought there'd be anything new to see. Reynir didn't know how much time passed before he stopped shaking, or before he managed to push himself up from his knees and walk over to the basket where the kitten lay curled around herself.

He'd figured out by this point that she would puff up and hiss if something dangerous was around, so at least nothing could sneak up on them. She wasn't puffed now—but she did look tiny and scared, a baby without her parents who was much too far from home.

"I know what that's like," he whispered, and reached out to stroke her head. She gave a small mew, and rubbed her forehead against his palm.

Gently, Reynir scooped the kitten out of her basket. He shot a look at Tuuri—she was still waiting after the others; she wouldn't miss him, and if the kitten gave a warning, he could still let her known right away.

The office was quiet, and dark. Was it really only yesterday Sigrun had been sitting in that chair, and Mikkel in that one beside her, threading a needle? As for Reynir…

Yes. He'd been curled up in that nook, knees drawn up against his chest, wondering what it was like to turn into a troll and if one of the crew would shoot him before he did. He'd thought he'd known what it was to be afraid.

Now, he curled up in that same corner, fingers curling into the kitten's soft fur, and sobbed until his breath would only come out in a series of choking gasps.


	6. Break Away

**Prompt:** Break Away

 **Characters:** Lalli, Cthulhund

* * *

The Silent World contained countless numbers of eternally tortured souls, all of them screaming in their sleep. Lalli didn't know why Emil cared so much about _this_ one.

Maybe because when it wasn't attacking, it was too pitiful to be anything but sad. Maybe it was because this one had _asked_ , in a way no other had asked before—Lalli had needed no words to understand the dog's wordless plea, nor Emil's agonized whispering even as he had ended its miserable life. Whatever the reason, Emil cared, and therefore it mattered to Lalli as well.

Emil had done what he had to do, though it had hurt him to do it. Emil was Swedish, though, and Swedes didn't believe in magic or souls. He probably didn't realize he'd left something undone.

His eyelids drooped as he sat in the snow before the corpse of the dog-Beast, but the ritual learned with long practice came to his fingertips as easily as it ever had. Lalli worked through the morning, ignoring the sounds of the others stirring and the smell of breakfast, even ignored Emil's dismayed cry when he came wandering over for whatever reason and saw what Lalli was doing—he couldn't have answered anyway. Instead, he explained in the only way he knew how, and continued the ritual through to its end.

Cold and fatigue bit into his muscles as he scaled the tree, the old ache of hard work and not enough food. At long last, though, he reached the branch he wanted, and settled.

Emil's protests had grown steadily less frequent the longer he worked, and they quieted entirely as Lalli raised his own voice to sing the final spell that would cleanse the dog's spirit. Whether he believed in magic or not, whether he understood the words or not, he still understood the gesture.

As Lalli spoke the final words of the spell, a flash of motion erupted from the skull he'd placed in the tree. It was there for one blink, gone in the next, over so quickly that one could never be sure it had ever been there at all, but in it Lalli caught a glimpse of bounding legs, liquid brown eyes, and thick soft fur, and even thought he heard the faint echo of a joyful bark.

Emil would not have seen even that glimpse. As Lalli descended the tree and Emil held out his arms, though, there was one understanding that they needed no words to share: this soul, at least, had been freed.

* * *

 **A/N:** This chapter is dedicated to Charlie, a very sweet dog who is no longer suffering.


	7. Heaven

**Prompt:** Heaven

 **Characters:** Sigrun

 **Warnings:** Major character death, graphic description of fatal injuries

 **Soundtrack:** "Street of Dreams" by Blackmore's Night. Some may recognize the cover of _The Village Lanterne_.

* * *

Sigrun had seen this coming for a long time now.

There were almost no old hunters in Dalsnes. Most of the ones who did make it that far tended to be more brainiacs than real, hands-on warriors. Of course, once in a while someone was just extraordinarily lucky, but you couldn't count on it. To be honest, she hadn't been counting on seeing fifty—and she'd already passed that landmark by a good three years, so Sigrun thought that she had done pretty well, all things considered.

When one of the medics tried to lift up her shirt, she shook her head. If there was even the slightest chance of living then she would fight tooth and nail for her life, but Sigrun knew a mortal wound when it ripped open her stomach and left half her intestines spilling out over the ground. There was no point in dragging it out.

The medic did at least offer her something for pain, and she did at least let him do that. He pushed up her sleeve; she turned away, but only seconds after the needle's prick, the stabbing agony was blunted to a dull ache.

Now, there was nothing to do but wait.

At least she'd taken the giant down with her. That tale would be told in Dalsnes for years to come, she thought with a smile.

Dully, she realized that the medic had stayed with her, had even draped a blanket over her body, and that the crew of hunters she'd been in charge of were all gathered round, some of them openly weeping. "General Eide," one of them managed. "Is there anything… anything you'd like us to…?"

"My crew." The words came out in a whisper, and her vision was rapidly darkening—it wouldn't be much longer. "From the Silent World. Tell them…"

She was unable to continue, but she could see that she wouldn't have to. Everyone was already nodding, and she knew that letters would be sent: to Emil, to Mikkel, to the Finns, detailing her death and its heroic circumstances. Sigrun couldn't ask for anything more.

She closed her eyes. The medic's hands tightened around hers. A spring breeze played over her face, the playful currents of air seeming to whisper 'Well, what are you waiting for?'

She exhaled.

For a moment, all was confusion. She couldn't feel her body anymore, which given the amount of pain she'd been in should have been an improvement, but it felt so much more wrong to be constantly groping for something that wasn't there. She couldn't see—her vision hadn't even gone black, there was just _nothing_. For a few minutes, for an eternity, there was no sound, no sight, no touch…

She opened her eyes.

Now, Sigrun was standing—standing, in the middle of a street at night. She was in a village she was sure she had never seen before, yet was somehow as familiar to her as the streets of Dalsnes. Dangling lanterns winked at her from above the streets, and cheerful golden light spilled from the windows of every house.

That same breeze was playing through her hair again, carrying with it scents she now recognized: packed earth on a warm spring night, new leather, freshly cut wood. For a moment, Sigrun closed her eyes, and simply let herself breathe.

She was home.

The breeze teased around her again, growing a little bit stronger, a little more insistent: it had a direction. Looking the way it wanted her to go, Sigrun saw a great hall, inviting golden light shining through its closed doors. From inside, there was laughter, and snatches of cheerful singing: notes rising in the voices of friends long dead.

The night air filled her lungs as she took one final deep breath, seeming to fill her with energy and life. Then, Sigrun was running forward in the wind's embrace, not even caring to notice the burning in her eyes as she pushed open the doors and strode inside to take her place.


	8. Innocence

**Prompt:** Innocence

 **Characters:** Sigrun, Emil

 **Ship:** Can be read as Emil/Lalli, or as Sigrun misinterpreting the situation. Your choice.

* * *

Sigrun knew that the time had come for her to give Emil the Talk.

No, not _that_ talk. Gods above, the kid looked to be almost out of his teens, and even supposing his parents hadn't bothered to do their job, Sigrun didn't think it should be her responsibility either. _That_ was one she would be pawning off on Mikkel, if needed. No, her responsibility was to give him the _other_ Talk—the one every cadet needed sooner or later after their first real field mission.

As soon as Emil had quietly disappeared even though it was almost time for dinner, she knew. So Sigrun left Mikkel to his cooking, Reynir to his "helping," and Tuuri to the radio, and stepped outside.

He wasn't hard to find. Their camp was small, and even Emil knew not to go beyond the perimeter. Sigrun found him at the edge of their campsite on the opposite side of the tank from the others, seated on a fallen log with the twig mage beside him, once in a while reaching over to pat his shoulder or hair.

"Lalli."

Twig's head jerked up, a small frown on his face at her use of his real name. Sigrun jerked her head back in the direction of the tank; even if they didn't have any languages in common, she thought that "get lost" ought to be a universal message.

The mage didn't move. Instead, he stared back at her with suspicious silver eyes, his fingers tightening around Emil's shoulder. Sigrun crossed her arms and glared right back.

"Look, you can cuddle all you want later." She ignored Emil's stammering and red-faced protests—maybe she _would_ have to get Mikkel to explain the facts of life at some point. "But right now someone has to talk with Emil, and I don't think it's going to be you."

"Go on, Lalli," Emil muttered, still red-faced, and gave Lalli a gentle push on the back. "Get some dinner. I'll catch up with you later."

When it was coming from Emil, at least, he listened. The mage got up and made his way back to the tank, though he didn't take his eyes off of Sigrun the whole way, and she couldn't even complain about insubordination when neither one of them had any clue what the other was saying. Instead, she turned her attention back to the reason she'd originally come out here. "Emil."

He refused to meet her eyes, turning his head away as he crossed his arms defensively over his chest. "Are you about to tell me I'll feel better about it tomorrow?"

Instead of answering, she sat down beside him with a sigh, on the opposite side that Twig had been sitting on. For a few minutes she didn't say anything, only listened to his ragged breathing, all the while making a point of keeping her own steady.

"First time I saw a group of hunters beach a leviathan," Sigrun began at last, quietly, "I waited till nightfall and sneaked back outside with an axe. Thought I'd put the poor thing out of its misery quickly. Only thing I managed in the end was to cause it even more unnecessary pain."

One of the senior Captains had found her after, bloody axe dropped at her feet, stripped down to her undershirt in spite of the below-freezing temperatures, frantically trying to wash her cloak in a water barrel before anyone noticed what was on it or thought to ask why. He'd only sighed, wrapped his own cloak around her shoulders, and made her come inside to his quarters where he'd sat her down in front of the fire, given her heated water to drink, and given her the same talk she was giving Emil now.

"Believe it or not, I've never liked this whole cold-blooded killing thing either. It's just something that has to be done—not just for our safety but for their sakes too. If Fuzz-Head or Freckles got infected, would you leave them like that?"

"No. I don't know." He wrapped his arms around himself a bit tighter, no longer defensive but seeking some sort of comfort. "But at least they would still be able to _ask_. Like that dog. The ones today, though…"

He didn't finish, and he didn't need to: Sigrun knew as well as he did that not only had today's trolls not had a chance to voice any pleas for help, they hadn't even attacked first. Not only that, but their deaths had been particularly gruesome. Before they even had a chance to go through decon, Emil had dropped his flamethrower on the ground as if he thought it would burn _him_.

"We did what had to be done," she said at last, pushing herself up from the log. "You find a way to live with it—or you find another job. But don't you dare get worried about the way you've been feeling. Unless you start enjoying it, there's nothing wrong with you."

She waited, but Emil didn't respond. In the end, Sigrun walked away with a sigh, wondering when and to whom Emil would be giving this speech himself.

* * *

 **A/N:** I was going to tell the whole story of the incident that led to this conversation, but in the end decided that it was best left ambiguous. And we do know that while Sigrun enjoys a good fight, she isn't into killing for the sake of killing or in cold blood, and the hints that she gave for why she never went into the seafaring business were telling.


	9. Drive

**Prompt:** Drive

 **Characters:** Tuuri

* * *

In Keuruu, everyone did a fair share.

If you were old enough to walk, you were old enough to work. Younger children were given simple chores that could be fit into the course of their schooling. Older ones, meanwhile, were apprenticed out according to their skills and inclination.

Tuuri's neat handwriting and eagerness to learn new things quickly earned her a place among the skalds. Large machines were also a rarity in Saimaa, though, and when she was on the way back home after copying out the last of her load of reports, she could not help but stop and peer through the door of the garage where the tractors were kept.

The mechanics never seemed to be bothered by her presence, not even when she grew bold enough to actually walk in and watch the repairs. Instead, they simply shrugged, and as long as she was keeping quiet and out of trouble, they let her be.

"Hand me the wrench, kid," a mechanic said one day while Tuuri squatted at her feet, which were sticking out from under the tractor she was working on. With a guilty start (she had only been looking for an excuse to get a look at the contents of that toolbox!), Tuuri hastily grabbed the specified tool and placed it in the woman's outstretched hand.

From then on, Tuuri became the mechanics' unofficial helper whenever she wasn't busy with her skald duties. She quickly learned the names and maintenance of every tool, the different sizes and shapes and why they were important. It wasn't long before she was crawling around under the machines on her own initiative.

"Hey, kid!" one of the mechanics shouted at her from across the garage one day. He was a giant of a man, towering head and shoulders over even Onni, his thick, sausage-like fingers perpetually stained with grease. "You've got some nice little hands on you." Without waiting for an answer, he hefted her up, lifting her until she was eye level with a machine that was currently balanced on a pair of metal struts. "See if you can reach in there and untwist those wires for me."

Tuuri learned the ins and outs of the garage in bits and pieces, through experience and the snatches of wisdom that the older mechanics chose to share. Her hands began to acquire perpetual stains of grease in addition to ink, the beds of her nails and the creases of her knuckles smeared black no matter how many times she washed.

Autumn arrived, and with it harvest time. Engines they had been repairing and maintaining for the past nine months suddenly roared to life, as their drivers took them on one final test run before sending them out to the fields.

"You ever had a chance to drive before?" one of the mechanics asked, grinning, as she stared up in awe at the rumbling tractor. Wordlessly, Tuuri shook her head.

When she sat in the uncomfortable leather seat, she could barely see over the steering wheel. Nevertheless, Tuuri listened with rapt attention as the woman explained which pedals and levers did what. She strained her leg downward until her toes brushed the pedal on the floor, and the machine lurched to life beneath her.


	10. Breathe Again

**Prompt:** Breathe Again

 **Characters:** Sigrun

* * *

There was at least one time in every Hunter's life when they stared death in the face and wondered: 'Is this it?'

Sigrun had wondered it when she'd first seen the tentacle come up at her out of the water. Hel, she'd been considering it from the moment she'd first been knocked in, but even then she'd still had a good fighting chance: she'd known how to land without hurting herself (too much), how to swim, how to climb Mikkel's rope before she froze. Up until that point, she still might have been able to get out none the worse for wear.

When it had truly targeted her, though, anything could have happened. It could have broken her body against the wall, struck her head, knocked her out so she'd drown even if it didn't eat her first. Death would have been instant, and there would have been nothing that Sigrun could do.

Instead, she was now wondering it again with every subsequent blow, with every second she struggled to hold onto consciousness long enough to take her next desperate gasp of air. Would the next blow be the one that jarred something loose, and started her brain bleeding to death inside of her skull? Would the next dunking be the one where she lost the battle with unconsciousness, and drowned? Would the next minute in the icy water be the one where her muscles locked up and she could no longer swim?

It seemed that she would soon get her answer: every time her head went back under the water, the voices grew louder, voices of friends who'd long ago asked themselves that question for the last time. They were calling, welcoming, singing, even daring: inviting her to join them in Valhalla.

No, she answered. She'd take her place when her time came, but there were lives she was responsible for _right now_ : her right-hand warrior Emil (the water closed in over her head), Fuzz-Head and her strange cousin (she gasped in a breath, not even half a lungful, but enough), even the mutinist medic (a stinging pain in her skull, and water rushed into her lungs in addition to the air she'd been gasping for) and that stupid civilian kid who should have stayed home. Besides, a real Viking warrior died in battle, going down fighting when her time came: not giving up like a coward.

The caged stairs caught her eye even as her vision swam, and Sigrun began to formulate the beginnings of a plan. It was not a _good_ chance—but it was still a chance.

Quick thinking, powerful strokes of her arms and legs, and a whole lot of luck, and then Sigrun was in the cage, up the stairs with the sjødraug too big to fit slamming into the bars after her; her head broke the water, and she took in her first burning lungful of air.


	11. Memory

**Prompt:** Memory

 **Characters:** Mia, Torbjörn

* * *

Whenever anyone took notice, they claimed it was a family tradition, which was not exactly a lie. The whole truth was just a bit more complicated.

When Torbjörn was young, he remembered asking his grandmother why all of their pets were always named Bosse.

In response, she smiled a bit. "Well," she said at last, "the history books will tell you that the Old World ended on Year 0, Day 0. But for me, it was on Day 9.

"My parents had told us we were going on vacation up at the family cabin—just them, me, and Grandma and Grandpa. I was young enough that to me, it didn't seem like anything out of the ordinary—I couldn't really wrap my head around how dangerous the Rash was.

"Then, though, Grandma and Grandpa wanted to get out of the car, at the same time our dog, Bosse, needed to pee. But Dad wouldn't let them. He wouldn't even stop to let Bosse out, and the dog peed in the car. Even after that, he didn't stop driving until we got to the cabin, and I was too scared to say a word. By the time we arrived, there was pee all over my clothes and luggage, and I was crying because I was wet and I smelled, and Mom and Dad were acting so weird and they didn't even seem to care. I think that that was the first time I truly realized that something was seriously wrong, that nothing after this was ever going to be the same. It wasn't the news reports or the deaths—it was Bosse, peeing, and nobody caring because there was something much bigger going on.

"We first got Bosse as a puppy, six years before Year 0," she went on. "He lived for six more years after that. Bosse was my constant, as the Old World fell into the new." She gave a pensive smile as she reached out to stroke Bosse's head, receiving a purr in response. "I guess it's just my silly little way of keeping the past alive."

Well that made sense, he supposed. Still, he had no idea why his parents had also kept up the tradition: neither of them had been alive before the Old World fell; they had no way of knowing what it was like.

Right when Torbjörn was beginning his Skaldic training, his grandmother died.

It was sudden, they said. A stroke, natural causes. She hadn't suffered.

Still, as Torbjörn and his brother stood side by side, staring down into her casket, he could not help but feel an ache that he had not expected, something that was not only loss, something he could not place. Somehow, he could not help but feel that something was slipping away.

"Well," his brother said at last, resting a hand on his shoulder, "at least she went easy. Wish I'd asked her more about the Old World, though."

That was it. His grandmother was one of the few people who'd been there, who could have told him of the wonders of technology that had long since died. Now, there were hardly any left.

Years passed. Torbjörn finished his training, found a job, and his thoughts began to turn to starting a family of his own. Things went as these things do: he dated a handful of women, took a serious interest in a few, and finally found the one he wanted to spend the rest of his life with. He took his soon-to-be fiancée to purchase a kitten for their new life together, and they stood arm-in-arm cooing over the proffered offerings; finally she pointed at a fluffy white thing, more puff than body, and said, "That one."

Torbjörn commended her choice with a smile, and they let the kitten loose in his home (soon to be hers as well) that very night. "Have you thought about names, dear?" Siv asked then, both smiling as they watched the little fluffball bat away at a hanging string.

He paused. He considered. Now was now, but… maybe the past had some value after all.

"How does Bosse sound to you?"


	12. Insanity

**Prompt:** Insanity

 **Characters:** Trond, Sigrun, and... Sigrun. Well how about that.

 **Ship:** Implied Aksel E./Sigrun L.

* * *

 _They'd have to be insane to want to work for us_ , they'd said. _They'd have to be idiots_ , they'd said. _We can't make this team work with insane idiots_ , they'd said.

Hmph. Doubters.

Well, Trond knew _exactly_ where to find insane idiots who knew how to get the job done, the thriving community that Dalsnes had become since his childhood was testimony to _that_. It seemed that he saw more of Aunt Sigrun's mark on the place every time he went back.

Aunt Sigrun, if his Uncle Aksel's tales were to be believed, was one of the few people in Dalsnes who had _cheered_ when the Rash had come. She and Uncle Aksel, along with his parents, had been the ones to fortify the town, figure out the best way to quarantine, and begin hunting trolls and beasts rather than simply hiding from them.

She'd also nearly gotten Trond killed, on multiple occasions. First there'd been the fireworks in the barn. The paint bucket incident was also particularly memorable. Then there was that one time with a wooden plank, an overdue library book, and a chicken, that no one else was going to find out about _ever_. All of this in her efforts to, and he quoted, "turn that kid into a Viking warrior if it's the last thing I do."

She did, and it was. Though Trond hadn't made his first kill in time to save her, it had been his first, and she'd seen. She'd gone out with a smile; her last words to him had been "I'll pay you back for that one, kid." She was probably wreaking havoc in Valhalla this very minute.

Well, that or wondering what in the name of Odin had taken him so long.

When they'd first made contact with Iceland, Sigrun had been the one pushing him onto the boat because it would be a fun adventure. (Oh yes, and a leviathan had nearly killed him that time, too.) She hadn't come with him on _all_ of his international stints, of course, but that first boat trip into the unknown was what had gotten him started on a long, successful career that had eventually made him a hero of his country, and given him ample blackmail material along the way. If not for Sigrun, Trond would not be where he was right now.

…forced into retirement, bored out of his mind, and crawling back to the hall of his birth in his desperation to have at least one last bit of fun before he finally bit it.

That particular brand of insanity was exactly what he was looking for. Aunt Sigrun would have _loved_ the idea of an expedition into the Silent World, would have been running out the door at the very mention of the idea while Uncle Aksel desperately tried to hold her back. Now, the only question left was who he would—

"ME! I VOLUNTEER!"

Trond's attention, along with everyone else's, was drawn to the Captains' table, where a tall redhead was practically leaping out of her seat, waving her arm around in a way that _demanded_ attention.

It took all he had to hold back a smirk. _He might have known._

* * *

 **A/N:** I just about drove myself up the wall trying to figure out whether it was more plausible for Gøran and Ingrid to have been Trond's parents or his grandparents. I eventually went with parents, but the match could work either way depending on how old they were and how late they decided to have children.

I also like the idea that the Andersen and Eide families have known each other for so long that they all end up as honorary aunts and uncles to each other's kids, but have never intermarried.


	13. Misfortune

**Prompt:** Misfortune

 **Characters:** Sigrun, Trond

 **Warnings:** Gruesome death, injury

* * *

For any Hunter, it was a given that bad things sometimes happened. For some, they were the last bad things that happened. Others were luckier… for a certain definition of "luck," that is.

The first time, Sigrun had been fourteen, a raw recruit out on her first real mission. It was supposed to be an easy kill, stand to the side and pick off stragglers while the more experienced soldiers flushed out the heart of the nest, something to give the greenhorn a bit of practice in a way that wasn't likely to get her mauled. At the start of the day, she'd been nervous and excited all at once, her hand steady on the hilt of her knife in spite of the fluttering of her heart against her ribcage. Though they'd never let down their guard or given in to carelessness, the older soldiers with her had made her feel more at ease, laughing, joking, slapping her on the back, promising her a swig or two of something stronger than water at the end of the day to celebrate the success they knew she'd have. With them, her jangling nerves had finally settled, and Sigrun had felt her heart soar: in spite of her inexperience, in spite of the fact that she had yet to kill anything bigger than a vermin Beast, they were already treating her as one of their own.

Maybe she actually _would_ have been, once upon a time.

At first, things went smoothly enough. Sigrun had even got her first kill, thrusting her knife out half in reflex when a grossling had leaped from the branches of a high tree with the intention of clawing her face off, and had ended up impaled instead. The Captain had had a good laugh over her moment of shock as she stood there with her mouth hanging open, blood splattered all over her face and uniform, and a dead grossling dangling from her hilt.

"You leave that open long enough and something is going to build a nest inside." The Captain's gentle bop on her chin reminded Sigrun to close her mouth, which she did, blushing. Then, he ruffled her hair. "Good job, little Viking."

The elation proved to be short-lived.

Their first target completed, they marched on to the next. Then the next after that. It was on their way to the fourth that they struck trouble.

They'd been skirting the trees again when a large pile of rubble in the middle of the trail brought them to a sudden halt. Sigrun, whose enthusiasm had been slightly dampened by sore feet and hunger, hadn't bothered to worry about it at first, glad only for a chance to surreptitiously shift her weight to first one foot, then the other, to give her aching leg muscles a brief respite from supporting her weight while the Captain consulted with the Lieutenant. After a few minutes of poring over a map they'd spread out atop a rock, the Captain turned around and raised his voice.

"Everybody form up! We're turning back!"

There was a bit of good-natured grumbling, but they did as told, shifting their ranks in preparation for the long march back to find another way around. Sigrun wondered glumly whether she'd get to kill _anything_ else that day, or it would all just be boring walking from here on out.

They'd barely been walking ten minutes when the trolls ambushed them from out of the trees.

The Lieutenant was the first to go, mutated claws ripping open her throat before she could even draw her knife. Next was the soldier who'd been standing right next to Sigrun; one second he was reaching for a weapon, the next he'd disappeared down the throat of something nearly as big as a house.

They were all around her; she didn't know which way to turn. Sigrun had her knife in hand and had just made up her mind to charge at one of the smaller attackers when the Captain barreled into her and shoved her to the ground.

The knife clattered to the ground from her stunned hand, and for a few seconds she could only breathe, adrenaline slamming through her veins, her fingers trembling and white. She turned to the Captain—

—and her half-formed protest died on her lips. A bone spur was protruding from his chest, blood pooling on the ground all around his body and soaking into Sigrun's uniform. He had probably saved her life—and all she could do in turn was put his knife in his hand, so he would not be going on without a weapon.

"See you in Valhalla," he whispered with a smile as his last breath left his body.

They were rescued by another unit that happened to be close by, whose commanding officer had heard the mayhem and decided she wouldn't be doing her duty if she didn't check it out. Once it was determined that Sigrun was not harmed, only shaken, they'd walked her back to base, where General Trond Andersen had summoned her to his office.

"Private Eide." He only addressed her so formally when he had something serious to say. "It is… unfortunate… that such a thing should happen on your first assignment—but unless you die tomorrow, it will certainly not be the last." Posture stiff, hands clasped behind his back, he turned to face Sigrun where she slumped in her chair, staring straight ahead and seeing not Trond, but the Captain who'd bled to death in front of her. "Many learn at this point what they can and cannot handle, and I'd even go so far as to say that you're lucky it happened early. If you wish to leave the military, it would be best that you do so now, while you still have a chance to choose another career."

 _Leave the military?_

It had never even occurred to her that she would ever do anything other than live and die in the service. She was young, strong, immune… the military was the only choice that had ever made sense. She'd never make an academic and she didn't know any crafts… what else was there? Farming? Spending her days washing pigs or plodding after a plow, her talents gone to waste, watching her friends and family earn their places in Valhalla, all the while wondering what might have been… Still… they'd died right in front of her, and there had been nothing she could do…

 _See you in Valhalla._

"No." With a shake of her head, she sat up straighter, pulling her body into a posture that was worthy of a soldier as opposed to a frightened child. "I'll stay."

Trond raised an eyebrow. "Then I hope," he said drily, "that you are in for the long haul."

Even then, Sigrun knew what it was she'd agreed to. It wasn't always easy, especially when friends died or she nearly did, but learning to take death and pain was all part of the job.

When she was twenty, it happened again.

Her unit was helping to clean out an area after a group of Swedish Cleansers had gone through—it was her first foreign assignment. So far, it had been easy work: the fire had already done most of the job for them, and all they needed to do was find the survivors and put them out of their misery before they had a chance to nest again.

Of course, easy had never eliminated the unexpected.

One minute, they were moving down the street comparing their kill counts, the next they were all scrambling back as a hunk of derelict road gave way beneath their feet—though their quick reflexes ensured that no one ended up inside of the gaping hole that was now all that was left of the street they'd been following, there was no way in Hel they'd be able to get past it now.

The Captain swore as he examined the damage. "Didn't the scouts do their job?"

"I think the question," someone else replied, "was whether the Old World builders did. Who puts holes underneath their streets?"

"The fire must have weakened it. We're going to have to turn around."

At those words, Sigrun felt a shiver of apprehension run up and down her spine, and pushed her way to the front. "We're going to backtrack?" she demanded. "Are you sure that that's a good idea?"

In response, he only raised an eyebrow. "Do you have a better one, Lieutenant?" She had to admit that she did not.

Sigrun didn't walk away from that one. She was just lucky that one of the other survivors had been strong enough to carry her.

The doctors told her that she was lucky, that if the troll's claws had gone any deeper into her back, they would have punctured a lung. Sigrun didn't feel lucky. Far worse than being stuck in a Swedish hospital for several months was the fact that two of her friends were now dead, and she couldn't even help to send them off—though that was hardly due to a lack of trying on her part.

Fighting the medics, as it turned out, had been a mistake. Any satisfaction she might have had from giving that one snooty doctor a black eye was pretty well nullified by tearing her stitches, even more so when the doctors had had to cut away _more_ skin from the wounds to sew them back up again. From then on she was good and stayed in bed, and did every stupid thing they told her to even though she was bored out of her mind.

She had few visitors. Her parents, she knew, wouldn't be getting a leave until after she was healed and back in Norway anyway, and the rest of her unit had already gone back only a few days after the incident. Nevertheless, she got one surprise visitor when Trond stopped by, explaining that he'd happened to be in the area. He even brought some ceremonial mead.

"I hear you were not well enough to attend the funerals," he said matter-of-factly as he passed her a goblet.

"Bet these heathens can't do a funeral right anyway." Sigrun took it in one long, steady draught, not rushing through it but not pausing either (the doctors were going to _hate_ her for this), silently repeating their names to herself until the vessel was empty. They were the latest on the end of an ever-growing list.

"I take it your decision has still not changed," he said, much later, right before he left.

"It hasn't," she affirmed.

Trond did not comment to either approve or discourage her. Right before he closed the door, however, Sigrun thought she saw a glimmer of respect in his eye.

Maybe it was just a series of weird coincidences. At the age of twenty-five, however, after leaping headlong right into a troll's waiting arms and beating it to death with her bare fists because it was tearing into one of her subordinates and _not again, never, ever again_ , Sigrun wasn't willing to take that chance again.

"Is everyone okay?" she asked as she stood, shouting to make herself heard over the howling wind. Later, her lieutenant would confess in private that she'd looked like something out of a nightmare, covered in blood and gore, one arm hanging limp because she was unable to move her shoulder, scowling fit to impress Hel herself, but at the time, she _felt_ terrified. _Who was it this time?_

One had died before the battle was even over, another bled out before they could get her back to base. The third, a new recruit, survived her wounds but succumbed to septicemia less than a week later.

"Your report?" Trond asked later that day as Sigrun stood in front of his desk, one arm in a sling.

"We had to backtrack." Though he waited, that was all that she said.

Now, at thirty-two, she did a headcount of her crew. Fuzz-Head, alive, possibly going onto the list as well but nevertheless alive. Twig Mage, still asleep and not screaming anymore. Freckles, shaking in the corner but still not hurt. Mutinist medic, she supposed she'd have to take him _off_ the list now. Emil, still showing promise, and now he would be able to _keep_ showing promise. And, of course, herself, wet, footsore, and falling asleep on her feet, but nevertheless alive. Today had been a setback, that was sure, but tomorrow she'd see what she could do about getting the team back on track and heading out to find that cure, like they'd planned.

If there was one thing Sigrun had learned, it was never turn back.

* * *

 **A/N:** Me, while writing this: "What, you again? _Trond!_ Why do you keep showing up uninvited?"

Wikipedia did tell me that there's an old Norse drinking ritual referred to as _minni_ that is dedicated to the remembrance of departed friends. Unfortunately it's a bit late for me to do further research, but I hope any mistakes can be excused by the fact that the characters had to improvise as well.


	14. Smile

**Prompt:** Smile

 **Characters:** Mikkel, Emil

* * *

He was stoic, quiet, mysterious. Most of the time, the man's face was a mask—but then he smiled when there was _no good reason to smile_ , and it was seriously starting to freak Emil out.

Sure, there was the prank _that wasn't funny_ , but _he'd_ claimed to be amused by it; that at least made a bit of sense. It only meant that their medic had a horrible sense of humor. There were also the other things, though, things that no one should find funny _ever_ , things that should have made him angry or hurt instead.

Like Sigrun making fun of him. You learned not to take it personally when Sigrun verbally walked all over you; most of the time, she wasn't actually _trying_ to be mean, she was just honest, straightforward. It had taken some getting used to, but Emil was actually glad for her bluntness; someone willing to say anything to his face wasn't going to go around talking about him behind his back. Still didn't mean he _smiled_ about it.

Mikkel, though… At the time, Emil had been a bit preoccupied with watching Lalli after his bout of motion sickness, but he'd still caught the man smiling after Sigrun made fun of his boring life on the farm. Nobody had a sense of humor _that_ weird. Come to think of it, Mikkel smiled a lot after Sigrun said something harsh to him. _What_ , he wondered, was the Dane laughing at? Probably him, he thought with more than a touch of disgruntlement.

* * *

The kid was insecure, Mikkel could tell.

He was jumpy, lacking in confidence, and always ready to assume that people were badmouthing him behind the language barriers. Though there was no way of knowing exactly what had happened in his former choice of career, Emil's files said enough: he had failed, many times, and was too young to have learned that it wasn't the end of the world. From those few hints that Torbjörn had let slip, his family wasn't particularly supportive of him either—which was why it was nice to see someone standing up for the kid for once.

"First of all, I _know_ you just called my right hand warrior _stupid_. _Second_ of all—! …you're stupid."

…even if it was at Mikkel's expense.

It was reassuring that Emil had a champion and a mentor—Mikkel thought that Sigrun might be good for him, once she learned how not to freak him out. Speaking of Sigrun…

He shook his head. She was coming dangerously close to pushing his boundaries, in multiple different ways. When she'd put words in his mouth during their first ride together rather than following through with her question, it had been a huge relief, because Mikkel had already pegged her as the type who didn't know when to let well enough alone. If she'd actually pushed him to answer what he'd been doing before…

Well, that was only what might have happened, and this was now. Mikkel went back to washing the dishes with a shake of his head.


	15. Silence

**Prompt:** Silence

 **Characters:** The main crew

* * *

No one had quite realized before how _quiet_ the tank could get when they had two crewmembers down.

Not that Lalli had been particularly loud to begin with; as a matter of fact even when he _was_ inside with the others he spent most of that time sleeping. When he was unable to wake, though, that made Emil worried, which made him quiet in turn. Even Tuuri was starting to get worried at this point, now that her cousin had been asleep for more than twenty-four hours straight and still showed no signs of waking up.

Normally, in such a situation Sigrun could be counted on to lift the mood and boost morale with her characteristic enthusiasm and good cheer—but on this morning, Sigrun had also stayed in bed. To Tuuri's whispered inquiry, Mikkel said only that she was ill and she needed her rest, and not to disturb her. When, a few minutes later, though, Reynir asked—timidly, quietly, not at all like his usual enthusiastic volunteering—whether there was anything he could do to help, and Mikkel assigned him some washing without a single word of protest, it was clear that he was more worried than he was letting on.

There was almost nothing for anyone to do. There was no course of action they could take without the captain's orders and no one to scout them a safe route even if they did. Mikkel did give them a few tasks—Tuuri had books to transcribe and research to file, and Mikkel himself took a few minutes to report in to base—but Emil had few skills that didn't involve making explosions, and didn't want to leave Lalli's side even if there was something for him to do.

"Would you _stop_ that?" he demanded irritably that afternoon as Tuuri transcribed a book, the clack-clack-clacking of the keyboard a steady background noise that had been going on for the past several hours.

"I'm _working_ ," she snarled back, ripping the finished page out of the typewriter with such force that it tore slightly at the edges. "It's not my problem there's nothing to blow up right now—"

"Don't you even _care_ about Lalli being sick? He's your cousin! _You're_ supposed to be the one who's worried about him!"

"There's nothing I can do!" Tuuri slammed her hand down on top of a stack of books, causing several of their neighbors to topple over onto the floor. "And if you think that I—"

"Tuuri. Emil."

Both jumped up with a guilty start. Mikkel was standing in the doorway with an armful of clean bandages, a Reynir cowering behind him with the kitten wrapped in his arms.

"…I'll close the door," Tuuri muttered with a guilty flush.

She didn't come out again until Mikkel called them for dinner. The meal itself was a quiet, cheerless affair: shortly after portioning out their servings Mikkel took a bowl back into the tank to check and see if Sigrun felt up to eating anything, leaving the three younger crewmates outside by themselves.

"Is this why they call it the Silent World?" Tuuri wondered out loud as she picked at her food.

Nobody answered. Though she'd spoken in Icelandic, Reynir didn't respond, only poked his spoon morosely into his own bowl. Emil, hearing someone he'd just had an argument with speaking a foreign language in front of him, opened his mouth, but then decided he didn't actually want to know whether she'd been talking about him behind his back, and shoved some sludge into his mouth instead.

They were nearly done eating when Mikkel came back out of the tank and set the still nearly full bowl in front of the kitten with a sigh.

"What about Lalli?" Emil demanded later that night, sidling up close while Mikkel was washing the dishes and everybody else was getting ready to bed down. "He's been out for over a full day now. Look, I'm not the medic on this crew, but I think that something is really wrong."

Mikkel took his time answering, swiping the last bowl quite dry before setting it on top of the others. "I don't know why Lalli won't wake," he admitted at last.

"Physically, I haven't been able to find anything wrong with him," he continued as he untied his apron. "If there is a problem, it's one I'm not equipped to deal with. Even supposing he doesn't have some hidden injury, if he won't wake, then he can't eat or drink—and that's a situation I don't have the supplies for."

"So what will we do?" Emil's eyes were wide, his face frozen in shock.

"If this goes on for much longer? We might have to risk backtracking without the aid of a scout, if we want to get him to a hospital in time."

"Don't think Sigrun would like that," Emil returned, running a hand nervously over the back of his head.

"Sigrun is running a dangerously high fever. Lalli isn't the only one who might be in desperate need of aid before long."

That night, Emil lay awake in bed, letting his hand dangle onto the floor beneath his bunk.

"Please be okay," he whispered. His groping fingers found Lalli's, and squeezed. "I know that most of us have only just met, but I think that we've got something good going for us here. I think that _we_ could have something good, if we have a chance." He tightened his grip again, and didn't let go for the rest of the night.

The next morning, Tuuri, Emil, and Reynir were waiting for Mikkel to cook breakfast when Lalli stumbled out of the door with a hand over his mouth.

For a minute, all anyone did was stare. Then, Tuuri had run up to him, babbling a whole lot of Finnish and backing her cousin nearly back inside the door of the tank. This tirade ended with her shoving her bowl into his hands and running back inside with a choked gasp.

Lalli stared, before looking down into the bowl of porridge and back up again. Emil patted the rock beside him with a relieved smile.

As the day passed on, Mikkel made Lalli sit down so he could check him over once again for injury. Lalli did not particularly appreciate this—especially since he'd already told Tuuri to tell him what was wrong.

"Just let him do it," his cousin said unhelpfully. "You've been asleep for almost two days; maybe not getting anything to eat or drink would have caused some problems?"

The only problem he'd noticed was his stomach cramping up shortly after he'd eaten his breakfast. Emil was so happy to see him, though, it was hard to be disgruntled about anything for too long. The Swede was happily babbling away in his incomprehensible language, not caring at all that Lalli couldn't understand a word he was saying—the meaning behind the words was plain enough without a translation.

It was only after he'd tolerated the whole ordeal that Tuuri saw fit to inform him that the captain had also been ill.

"She got beaten pretty badly by an aquatic troll," his cousin explained when he peeked back into the sleeping area (he'd been too out of it when he woke up to pay proper attention to his surroundings), only to find Sigrun, wrapped up in blankets, in Mikkel's usual spot, "and just about drowned before she managed to get out of the water. Mikkel says that the cold really did a number on her, and it didn't help that she was already wounded."

Throughout the course of the day, he did notice that Mikkel spent most of his time inside of the sleeping quarters, coaxing Sigrun to swallow food or medicine. He also saw the man talking with his cousin in hushed voices, but didn't think anything of it until Tuuri approached him at dinner.

"Mikkel wants to know if you'd be up for scouting us a route back to the coast," Tuuri said, before he had even gotten a chance to eat. "I know it's really soon, but… Sigrun is really sick. We don't know what's going to happen if she doesn't get help."

Lalli didn't answer right away. He chewed his food. He considered his weakened luonto and the strength of his legs. Finally, he turned back to his cousin.

"Give me one more day."

After that, Lalli had gone back to sleep. He needed to regain as much strength as he could if he was going to scout, and the others had all done their best to leave him undisturbed. They were sitting down to breakfast the next morning, Emil just contemplating whether it would be worth it to wake Lalli up if only to get him to eat something, when from inside of the tank there was a hiss, a "Mrr," and a startled shout.

Mikkel was the first to get to the bunk. Upon opening the door, he was greeted by the sight of a scout who'd crawled under the bed, and their captain lying on the floor tangled up in blankets.

"Anyone want to get me out of this?" Sigrun demanded when she paused in her thrashing to look up and see him in the doorway. "Oh yeah, and food would be nice."

He could not help but smile. At long last, the silence was broken.


	16. Questioning

**Prompt:** Questioning

 **Characters:** Emil

 **Ship:** One-sided Emil/Lalli

* * *

When he'd been in public school, the excuses had been easy.

He was _busy_. All of the teachers expected him to just jump in and know stuff that had never been part of the curriculum he'd studied under his private tutors, and when scrambling to catch up on ten years' worth of material in five different classes, it was hard to find time to think about one's love life.

It didn't help, either, that Emil had been completely _miserable_. None of his classmates had liked him, always snickering and talking about him behind his back (in Icelandic, right in front of him, rubbing it his face that they could say anything they liked because they knew the language and he didn't). It was a bit difficult to be attracted to _any_ girl when the last time he'd seen her, she'd been having a good laugh with a group of friends while pointedly staring right at him.

Even after he'd joined the ranks of the Cleansers, there wasn't a whole lot that changed. When he looked back on it, Emil had to admit that when he'd first seen the recruiting poster, it was as much the easy camaraderie of the people who'd posed for the picture as it was the promises of fire and explosions that had drawn his eyes. The reality of it, however, just turned out to be more of the same old thing: the jabs, the pranks, so-called friends who never stuck with him for more than a few weeks. The only difference was that this time, there were a lot more bone-crunching exercises involved.

So no, even after he'd reached the age where he ought to start feeling something, there were simply no girls or women his age he'd personally found appealing. Cruelty was a turn-off; it wasn't hard to explain. And if he found his eyes lingering a bit too long on the other men while they were in the showers… well, he wouldn't be lying if he said that he envied their strong, wiry physiques, and was constantly wondering when he would finally begin to shed some of his own baby fat. There was nothing out of the ordinary at all about it, really.

Now, though, excuses were getting harder to come by.

Sigrun was a bit old and scary for him and his commanding officer besides; even though she genuinely seemed to like him, Emil knew better than to act even if there had been anything there to act _on_. As for Tuuri, she was… okay, he supposed. She'd seemed honestly excited to meet him and had even expressed appreciation for his hair in a way that few people did, but when all was said and done Emil still only thought of her as a crewmate with whom he was on reasonably friendly terms, nothing more. Maybe plump women simply weren't his type. Whatever the reason, there were still plenty of explanations available that made perfect sense. What he was having an increasingly harder time justifying was the fact that her cousin was a different story entirely.

Emil caught himself looking at Lalli, in ways he had never before looked at any woman. At first he'd put the powerful rush of emotion down to sympathy, to him feeling sorry for the poor guy who'd been so motion sick he clearly hadn't eaten all day, who was stuck in a foreign country where he didn't speak the language. Gratitude, empathy, mere worry for a friend's safety… really, he'd have been that worried about _anyone_ who'd had to go off alone into the Silent World at night.

Right?

Deep down, however, he knew that he was quickly running out of excuses, that he wasn't going to be able to run away from this forever. As he drifted off to sleep at night, Emil tried to prepare himself to face it.

He wanted children—maybe not right now, but eventually. It still wasn't impossible, but this just made the whole thing so much more complicated.

Maybe this _was_ just a phase. After all, he'd never had a crush in his life; could he even trust himself to know what attraction felt like?

Worst of all, he still had absolutely no idea how _Lalli_ felt. True, he'd never seen Lalli voluntarily touch anyone else—but what did that mean, really? Not having any languages in common just made everything that much harder.

"Why can't life ever be simple?" he whispered into his pillow as he pressed it into his face.


	17. Blood

**Prompt:** Blood

 **Characters:** Emil, Watcher, Sigrun

* * *

He'd known all along that they used to be human. Somehow, it still came as a surprise that they could _bleed_.

When he'd first joined the Cleansers, he'd expected… well, in all honesty Emil hadn't known quite _what_ to expect. Dried-out corpses, maybe, that unless you destroyed the brain would keep on shambling even as you cut them to pieces. Not something that would bleed and cry out in pain and flee in fear like a human. Not something that would beg for _help_.

With the giant on the train and the attackers in Spot 24 he'd been too terrified, and with the burrower troll too busy lying on the ground clutching his leg in pain. Even that poor dog had still been a dog, the disease something outside of it that was ravaging its body, something it was fighting. The beast that had chased him? That wasn't what bled when he finally ended its miserable life.

This, though? This was another matter entirely.

The sjødraug, as Sigrun had called it, was its own creature. Emil couldn't see through to the human or humans that it had once been. For some reason, that only made it all the more pitiful. Even after it had brutally beaten Sigrun and chased after them of its own volition, its exhausted grunts and the trail of blood it left as its tender underside dragged over the ground couldn't help but inspire a stab of sympathy.

Leaving it to die of exposure was a necessary cruelty—but it was cruel nonetheless. They didn't have the means to go back and kill it properly, not without drawing unwanted attention and risking the wounded. Helping it back into the water was out of the question—even if they could, it would only try to kill them in turn. At least he had the reassurance that Sigrun didn't like it any more than he did—that he didn't feel this way because he was too soft, or because the military was too hard.

Now if only he could stop wondering about all of the _other_ trolls that they'd killed, and the more that they'd undoubtedly kill in the future if they wanted to finish this mission alive.

Trolls attacked and fled danger and bled like humans—did they feel and think as well?

"Hey Sigrun?" he asked later because there was nobody else _to_ ask, no one else there who could understand. "Do you think that trolls… feel?"

For a few seconds, she only looked at him.

"Who knows," she said at last, adjusting the strap of the bag over her shoulder. "My job is to kill these things. Can't think about it too much or you'll go insane."

Emil nodded unhappily. He could see her point, but that didn't mean that he had to like it.

"And feelings or not, _they've_ been trying to kill _us_ for decades. We're going to avoid trouble if we can, but they can't exactly blame us for defending ourselves if we have to, or for trying to carve out our own space to live."

As they pushed on to their next stopping point, Emil couldn't help but wonder whether she was referring to their fellow humans… or to the trolls.


	18. Rainbow

**Prompt:** Rainbow

 **Characters:** Emil, Lalli

 **Ship:** ... You know what, interpret this one however you want. I can't exactly pretend that there isn't subtext.

* * *

Emil hated this day. He hated this day _so much_.

All night long, and the whole day before, it had been nothing but rain, rain and more rain. They'd been out in it all day yesterday, and had returned wet and exhausted. To add insult to injury, of course Sigrun had been completely fine, but by the end of the day Emil had noticed a tickle in the back of his throat that had somehow turned into a full-blown head cold while he slept, and now he could barely breathe—it felt as if someone had sandpapered the inside of his throat.

It just wasn't fair.

Sigrun had even tried to drag him right back out into the rain, feeling the way he was, but Mikkel had put his foot down. There'd been no ulterior motive this time, no attempts to wheedle his way in where she didn't want him. He'd simply said no. Sigrun had protested, of course, and fumed and ranted for a bit about how the kid would go soft at this rate, but by some miracle, she'd actually listened this time. In the end, Sigrun had decided to do some reconnaissance with the kitten as her companion warrior, and Emil had gotten to stay in bed and rest.

Mikkel had given him some painkillers, in addition to a rather nasty concoction the Dane had claimed would help clear his sinuses. Or at least that's what Emil thought he had said; it was hard to tell with all the mumbling. It had tasted like drinking turpentine, but Emil had to admit that it had done its job. Now there was nothing for him to do but sit in bed, eat the occasional bowl of porridge, and attempt to sleep over the sound of the rain drumming on the roof of the tank.

"Hurry up and get better," Sigrun told him when she came back that afternoon, a twig sticking out of her hair and her uniform covered with mud. Her exasperation seemed to have passed; now she just looked worn out, though she still took the time to pat him on the shoulder before she headed out for dinner. "Can't have my right-hand warrior out of commission while we've got a mission to complete."

"I'll… try," he promised, not even sure whether she was still listening. Emil didn't like being ill any more than Sigrun liked it, that was for sure. He had just finished his supper and was considering trying to drowse again when a hand poked out from underneath his bed and came to rest atop his covers, followed by a head of ash-blond hair and two otherworldly, silvery eyes.

"Oh… hey, Lalli." He tried to smile, but it probably came out looking like more of a grimace. "Got a bit of a head cold right now. Stupid rain."

Of course Lalli didn't understand a word he was saying, but he seemed to get the gist of the situation nonetheless. He blinked a couple of times, head cocked to the side, before reaching out to gently pat Emil's forehead. Then, he was gone, vanishing into the night to do his scouting run while Emil did his best to go back to sleep.

When he woke, the first thing he noticed was that he was thirsty. And hungry. And covered in sweat. And that his throat didn't hurt anymore.

Oh yes, and that someone was patting his head.

Cracking his eyes open, Emil saw Lalli standing over him, his coat off and his hair sticking up in all directions: he must have just gone through decon. Mikkel and Sigrun's beds were empty; the others were only just beginning to stir. Lalli's fingers closed around his wrist, and he gave a gentle tug.

"Oh, um… sure, okay." Emil made sure to grab his jacket—getting sick again was _not_ high on his list of priorities—and allowed Lalli to lead him out of the tank.

The rain had stopped. It was a sunny day, unusually warm for the season, the moisture from the previous night's rainfall still hanging in the air.

"So." Emil rubbed his eyes. "Did you want to get breakfast, or…"

The question faded into silence as he followed Lalli's pointing hand. There, in the morning sky, was an arc of color. Red faded to yellow and finally back down into purple, painting the drab winter sky with a splash of color. Emil felt a smile spreading over his face as they stood on the steps of the tank together, and watched.

Maybe the rain had been worth it after all.


	19. Gray

**Prompt:** Gray

 **Characters:** The main crew

* * *

The fog had descended on their camp with almost unnatural suddenness, shrouding them in an impenetrable damp wall so thick that if one stepped outside, one could barely take two steps without losing the tank. When Tuuri tried turning on the headlights, the light only bounced bounced right back through the windshield, nearly blinding her before she hastily turned them back off again and cut the engine. "I don't think I can drive anywhere in this," she answered in return to Sigrun's raised eyebrow. "I'm sorry!"

"What do you want to do?" Mikkel had just come inside, balancing a few bowls in his arms. As hungry as they were, no one save Reynir had waited outside while he cooked: the oppressive fog muffled sounds, damping any conversation that tried to start, and even the cheery civilian had fallen silent after speaking only a few words.

Sigrun snatched the first bowl and shoved the spoon into her mouth, for once not even complaining about the taste. Mikkel and Reynir handed out everyone else's servings in a much more calm and orderly manner, and they all began to eat in silence. Only after everyone was seated with a steaming bowl of porridge did Sigrun speak again—her own bowl was already more than half-empty.

"I don't like trying to go anywhere in this fog, inside of the tank or out. It might muffle our sounds, but it'll also make it easier for something to sneak up on us. Stay here, set a guard, do whatever it is you people do that isn't killing trolls."

"Of course." Mikkel didn't voice the sigh of relief that everyone was holding back, nor did Reynir bring up the unease that was hovering in more than a few people's minds.

As long as they stayed inside and didn't look out the windows, they could almost pretend that it was a normal, slow day. After all, Mikkel, Tuuri, and Reynir weren't doing anything they wouldn't be doing otherwise: transcribing books, calling back to base, getting a bit of washing done. If anyone thought it unusual that Mikkel had chosen to bring the washbasin inside, they didn't make any mention of it.

On the surface, Emil didn't particularly mind the break: he was still sore from the various strains and injuries of the past few days, and it gave him a ready excuse to stay by Lalli's side. In the back of his mind, though, he couldn't help but recall what Sigrun had said about ambushes, and he shivered and moved closer to his friend whenever he thought of the horrors that might at this very moment be creeping ever closer under cover of the fog.

The inactivity was hardest on Sigrun. Someone who was used to simply punching anything that got in her way didn't take well to being forced to sit still, in spite of Mikkel's reminder that she should be resting now anyway. She paced from one end of the tank to the other, looked out the windows, cursed under her breath, and dropped her hand to her belt to draw her knife before silently re-sheathing it and starting the whole routine all over again.

"Enough with the fog already." When they had nearly reached noon and the weather still had not cleared, those who understood her could not help but agree with her muttered complaint.

The sun was just starting to set and still no sign of the fog lifting when Lalli awoke with a hiss.

"Lal—!" Emil's surprised elation at seeing him awake was cut short when Lalli shoved him back with a few hissed words of Finnish before scrambling out from under the bunk.

Immediately, Sigrun was on alert. "What's he on about?" she demanded, turning to his cousin, who'd just come out of the radio room.

Tuuri listened for a moment, before her eyes went wide. "He says there are hostile spirits outside."

"What, again?" Sigrun suppressed the shiver that ran down her spine—the last thing the crew needed right now was to see their commanding officer panic. "Oh no you don't," as Tuuri automatically edged toward the steering wheel. "Focus! Ask your cousin what we can do to stop them."

Taking a deep breath, Tuuri turned to Lalli once more. Everyone was gathered around now, those who couldn't understand having the conversation relayed to them by those who could. Mikkel relayed the talk of spirits to Reynir unedited, with no hint of sarcasm. Belief or no belief, the night before had shaken him—far more than he would like to admit. Bad enough that two people had fainted, for no apparent reason, at the exact same time, right after one of their own had started panicking about spirits, though even that could have been explained away by happenstance and coincidence, something in the air. What could _not_ be explained was whatever it was that had plagued him while he was unconscious, only remembered in half-glimpsed visions now—but they were visions that made him shudder nonetheless. No nightmare—

His train of thought was jarred to a halt when Lalli spoke emphatically, pointing at Reynir. It sounded as if he was repeating a statement he had already made several times over.

"He says… he says you're going to have to help shield us again," she relayed at last, her voice shaking. "And that we ought to surround ourselves with light, any way we can. I'll see… I'll see if I can get in touch with Onni."

It had been a stupid mix-up, a crate filled with candles instead of food. At best, everyone had thought they'd be extra deadweight to haul around until their mission was complete. Instead, those candles ended up saving everyone's lives that night.

Sigrun and Emil jumped out, into danger, Lalli a silent shadow behind them; even Mikkel helped them to get the crates open. Emil had matches, originally intended for lighting explosives, which were now passed around and struck. They were still in the process of circling the tank when Reynir stuck his head out of the door, eyes unfocused, looked straight at Emil who was in the process of placing a candle on the ground, and said, "No, no—put it there."

No one questioned how he knew what he knew. They simply did as he said. Before the sun had finished sinking below the horizon, the tank was surrounded by a soft golden glow that pushed back the fog.

"Everybody back inside," Sigrun ordered, holding up one last candle with her good arm. "And keep that crate somewhere we can reach it!"

It was well past bedtime, but nobody felt like sleeping anymore. Instead, they huddled all together on the floor of the sleeping area, lit candles everywhere they could fit them. Reynir was in the middle of the room, occasionally chanting something in Icelandic under his breath. Lalli had climbed up onto Sigrun's bed, and now sat staring out at nothing with glowing silver eyes. After a few minutes, Tuuri came in to join them, rubbing her upper arms.

"I managed to get hold of Onni," she said quietly. "He says he'll do his best to protect us."

No one said anything, only gave a series of relieved nods. Sigrun patted the blankets beside her with a yawn, and Tuuri moved to settle into the one piece of floor space that was left. Emil passed out his matches.

They stayed like that, stirring only to replace and re-light burnt out candles, until the sun rose once more to burn off the fog and bring color back into the world.


	20. Fortitude

**Characters:** Sigrun

 **Warnings:** Permanent injury, ableism and internalized ableism (I _think_ that that's right?)

* * *

The day her life turned upside-down started as an ordinary morning.

It was supposed to be a hunt, like any other. Danger, she had expected. Maybe she would get hurt, or someone else on her team would. Maybe they would lose someone. It might even be _her_ turn, this time.

It was something that Sigrun had always known, but didn't often think about, because there was no point in worrying over something that _might_ happen. You went into the field, you ran headlong into danger, and you did your best to survive. If you did, you made sure to enjoy your next day. If not, then cowering in a corner before it happened was just a waste of what precious little time you'd had left to begin with. In short, she'd been prepared for any of it, all of it… anything, that is, but what had actually happened.

She'd been leading her team up among the fjords. Treacherous ground: too many hiding places for trolls, too many easy ways to fall. When a group of trolls attempted to ambush them from a convenient crag that had been hidden away from the sun, Sigrun couldn't even bother to be surprised. Instead, she rallied her team and led the charge, going in with sword drawn.

That was when her luck had turned.

Normally, these conditions favored the Hunters; they could use fire, smoke the grosslings out of their home, then pick off the trolls with ease as the narrow opening forced them to flee in ones and twos.

It looked like they'd gotten most of them off. Then, one of the cats hissed, and Sigrun was only halfway to swinging her knife toward the source of it when daggers of pain shot through her leg.

The knife plunged home even as it bit, but now there was blood soaking her uniform and all over the ground. So much red… must be hers, she realized with a shock. When had she decided to lie down on the ground? Mustn't do that… still danger… but when she tried to push herself up her arms trembled for a few seconds and then gave way. The last thing she saw was one of her subordinates hastily tying a piece of cloth tight around her leg; it was soaked red within seconds.

* * *

When she awoke, she was in a field infirmary—Sigrun could smell the antiseptic before she even opened her eyes. When at last she did bully her eyelids into opening, her parents' faces swam into view above her.

"Mom? Dad? 'r you doing here?" Her parents were generals; they couldn't be spared to drop everything and run to her side—not unless she'd been hurt really badly. Her heart jolted at the thought, and… yes, a small prick at her elbow indicated the presence of a needle feeding blood into her arm. She must have almost bled to death.

Instead of answering, her father squeezed her hand. "How are you feeling?"

"Like crap." Even as she spoke, however, something was niggling in the back of her mind, tugging more insistently as she came to full alertness. "Now do you want to tell me what's going on?"

They looked at each other, and still didn't answer, which only scared her more. Impatiently, Sigrun yanked her other hand out of her mother's grip, and grabbed hold of the blankets that covered her up to her chest.

"Sweetie, you might not want to—"

Any further protests her mother might have made died on her lips as Sigrun threw off the covers and saw that, where her leg had been that morning, there was now only a bandaged stump.

* * *

She'd been a warrior, a Captain. She might not have _wanted_ to die, but she hadn't been afraid to either. Why could she not have at least had a warrior's death?

Sigrun asked that question of everyone and no one during the weeks and months that she spent healing: her parents, the doctors, the gods. She shouted it, whispered it, cried it into her pillow, and screamed it at the top of her lungs as she threw any breakable object within reach against the walls of her parents' house. After there was no longer anything left to break, she cursed at the gods for taking away the one thing that had mattered most to her—somehow, piety didn't seem so important anymore; now that they'd denied her Valhalla; what more could they do?

"Is that all that life was to you, Sigrun?" her mother demanded after overhearing one of these tirades. "How you were going to die?"

"That's easy for _you_ to say," Sigrun snarled back. The military had been her _life_. What was she supposed to do, now that her life was over, yet she had to keep on living?

It didn't help that everyone else in the village seemed to be asking the exact same question.

"A real pity," she overheard people saying the first time she left her parents' house on crutches after, her empty pant leg tied off at the knee. "She showed so much promise… could've made general… maybe she'd have been better off if the trolls _had_ killed her."

"I'm not deaf, you know!" she shouted at last, before wheeling on her crutches and hobbling home without giving them a chance to reply.

* * *

That winter, her father knocked on the door of her room to tell her she had a visitor.

"Who?" she demanded, propping herself up in bed, but the question answered itself when her father opened her door and a very large Dane was visible standing behind him.

For a moment, they only stared at each other while her father quietly left the room. Then, Sigrun gestured to an empty chair. "You'll have to excuse me for not getting up."

"Of course." Mikkel's eyes ran casually over her tied-off pant leg and the crutches that were leaning against her wall as he took the offered seat. "So how have you been?"

"Great. Never been better. One more limb and I'd say that life is just about perfect."

He pinched the bridge of his nose with a sigh. "Sigrun…"

"What do you want from me, Mikkel? I haven't exactly been fired enough times to just take up another job. Speaking of which, how long did that cooking job last?"

His smile was small, humorless. "I got fired last week."

"Can't say I'm surprised, the sort of sludge you make." She leaned forward, gripping her chin as she peered at him through narrowed eyes. "Or was it mutiny again?"

He didn't answer, which made her suspect it was indeed mutiny. "I suppose we Danes _have_ gotten rather good at being defeated." A pause. "I don't suppose I ever told you about Kastrup?"

Immediately, Sigrun knew what he was trying to do, and immediately her guard was back up. "If this is some sort of conspiracy with my parents to cheer me up, you can forget it." She flopped back down onto the bed, waving a hand. "I don't want to hear about you people and your failures right now."

"Okay. Then what _will_ help?"

The question caught her off-guard—though she didn't sit back up again, she did at least roll over so she could look at him this time. "You're actually asking?" He gave a small nod.

For a few minutes, she thought. Then, however, she rolled back over with a sigh.

"Sorry, buddy. But short of getting my leg back there's not much you can do to help me out here."

"Would you like me to leave?" When she didn't answer, he continued, "Your parents tell me you've barely been gone outside or talked to anybody. I know there's nothing I can do to fix this, but I thought that maybe…"

"I just wish I could walk around normally again," she confessed with a sigh. "These stupid crutches…"

Suddenly, she paused as an idea came to her. Mikkel immediately looked wary.

"Say, Mikkel."

"Sigrun…"

"You're a pretty strong guy."

"You are _not_ thinking what I think you're thinking."

"Oh c'mon! I'm even one leg lighter now!"

In the end, he gave—he certainly wasn't enthusiastic, even by Mikkel standards, but he didn't do any complaining either. And if people stared at the sight of her being carried around on the back of a big farmer Dane who answered every one of her commands with a meek "Yes ma'am," Sigrun could still be satisfied that at least this time, she had given them something worthy of staring at.

* * *

In spring, she got a letter from Emil.

He asked whether she would like to come to Sweden to be fitted for a prosthesis—something far more technologically advanced than she could get at home. Any expenses that the government wouldn't cover, he would pay out of his own pocket.

 _And before you even think of saying you don't take charity_ , he wrote on the last line, _consider it a long overdue repayment for saving my life._

"…was never looking for thanks for doing my duty," she grumbled, but nevertheless tucked it away somewhere safe.

"So which occasion was he referring to?" her mother asked when she shared the letter with her parents at dinner that night.

"Exactly." Sigrun paused to take a bite of her stew. "Kid was a bit of a wimp when I first got him. Came out all right, though, after some training up."

"I think you should go," her mother continued. "Maybe a bit of traveling is exactly what you need."

Sigrun doubted it, but she made the trip to Sweden nonetheless. Not like she was doing any good here anyway.

Emil was waiting for her at the dock. He'd even brought the kids.

"Aunt Sigrun!" they yelled, swarming her in a heap as she stepped off the dock. "What happened to your leg?" little Sonja asked, pointing at her crutches while the twins tugged at her clothes.

"Troll," she said, and left it at that. Sigrun couldn't even bring herself to be angry—it was far too amusing to watch Emil's frantic attempts to shush them from a subject he'd all too obviously lectured them not to bring up.

Speaking of Emil…

As they all piled into the horse-drawn carriage, Sigrun made a point of watching her former protégé. She'd been determined to make him into a proper warrior, which she'd done, but in the end he'd adapted so well to a life of peace: marriage, children. Sigrun wanted none of those things. She'd been born to fight, so once fighting was taken away, what else was left for her?

 _I'll figure it out_ , she thought as the carriage clattered over the street. _I'll find something worth doing here. And after… well, I may not get to Valhalla, but I wonder whether there's anything worth fighting in Hel._

* * *

 **A/N:** Somewhere the line I started thinking about how Sigrun's identity is so tied up in the military, and wondering how she would handle it if that was suddenly taken away from her.

As for the prompt, I was thinking something along the lines of how while it take courage to face a life-threatening situation, it takes an entirely different type of courage to live day to day when your dreams are gone.


	21. Vacation

**Prompt:** Vacation

 **Characters:** Sigrun

* * *

Last day of troll hunting season was finally, _finally_ here.

The start of summer was always a time of good cheer and camaraderie, when all of the new recruits first came in and soldiers who'd spent the winter cooped up on sentry duty finally got a chance to get out and _do_ something. There was drinking, running contests to see who could make the most kills, and much friendly teasing of the new recruits.

As the season went on, however, the general enthusiasm always began to wear out. Their numbers were stretched ever thinner as more and more soldiers sustained wounds that wouldn't allow them to stay in the field—to lose someone to death or permanent injury was especially hard on a team. Thankfully that hadn't happened to Sigrun's team this year, but they were short a scout who couldn't be replaced, and two of their cats were young and inexperienced, barely out of kittenhood and couldn't be relied on to help in a fight. Sigrun herself was covered in bruises, and woke every day feeling all of the strains of the previous week.

Yep, she'd say that she was ready for a break. All she had to do was get through this one last day with everyone alive.

Of course, keeping her team alive was no excuse to slack.

Sigrun wanted to start the off-season with the knowledge of a job well-completed, and pushed them hard to cover the ground they'd been assigned to sweep. So far, she'd succeeded: sure, they were all covered in mud and troll guts and sporting a multitude of bruises and strains, but no one had died, and they'd had no injuries that couldn't be fixed with a Band-Aid or a bit of tight wrapping. Personally, Sigrun considered that to be a very good sign.

It was nearly sunset when they came to the last spot they were assigned to clear, a small cottage in the middle of the wilderness, owned by some Old Worlder who'd apparently loved the solitude, back when loving solitude was still a safe thing to do. The walls were made of sturdy brick, the roof only just beginning to cave: not a crap building. There was a chance it might be a nest.

"Hans. Valda." Her best lieutenants stood up a bit straighter. "You're with me. And…" she scanned the cats, "…we'll take Loki too. The rest of you, wait out here."

Of course it turned out to be a nest. Of course. There were no trolls in the first room, but the moment they reached the door of the second Loki puffed up and hissed, and when they shone their torches inside of the doorway the light reflected off of countless eyes that were staring back at them.

It was not a big nest. Their tactic of choice was tried-and-true, and they'd done it so many times it came automatically: run back out the door, forcing the trolls to come out after them a few at a time so they'd be easy targets for the soldiers still waiting outside.

Nevertheless, the unexpected could always happen.

Sigrun had just turned to run, making the others had gotten out, when she saw a clawed hand shoot out at her from the corner of her eye. Immediately her knife flashed out, chopping the offending appendage from the hideous body it was attached to, but now there was another, and another, and she had to get to the door if she wanted to have any sort of fighting chance…

Loki streaked past her, hissing and spitting, to sink his claws directly into the eyes of one of her attackers. "Good cat!" she yelled as the troll reeled back, shrieking in pain. "Now let's get out of—"

The light was suddenly blocked as a rather large troll moved in between her and the door, and Sigrun let out a sigh of disappointment. _Really?_

Nevertheless she charged, aware that she was surrounded, yet not willing to give in without a fight.

The troll drew first blood, a claw biting into her cheek as she moved in for the kill. Sigrun drew last when her knife sank straight and true into its brain. Everything after that, however, was a blur, all gaping mouths, grabbing hands, the flashing of steel against rotting, corrupted flesh, and one very angry feline who sounded about as annoyed as she felt. This was _not_ how Sigrun had wanted to end her last mission of the season, but she was starting to think that she might manage to win this after all when something got its claws on the collar of her uniform, and yanked her backward with such force that she was thrown off her feet. She fell backward, smashed shoulders-first into _something_ that had far too many sharp edges, and finally came to a rest facedown on the dusty floor.

She was going to die staring at a bunch of paint splatters on half-rotted wood. A groan escaped her lips as she tried to work out how she was going to explain _that_ one to her friends in Valhalla, assuming they even let her in at this point.

Then, however, from above her there came the sounds of a scuffle, and Sigrun recognized the voices of her teammates and the dying screams of a few trolls: she must have killed more than she'd thought. She did feel hot breath on her neck and get a whiff of rancid meat, but thrust her dagger up without looking, and was rewarded with a shriek of pain that was quickly cut short when one of her crew dispatched it for good.

The battle was followed by silence, the intense silence of people waiting to see whether something else was going to jump out at them, but there was no sign of further troll activity. Now that the fight was over Sigrun was finally beginning to feel her injuries; her cheek stung, her back would be covered with bruises, and the ache in her neck said that it wouldn't be a good idea to move until the medic got her butt in here and made sure she didn't end up paralyzed. So she continued to stare at the floor as she slowly lowered the hand that still gripped her dagger, wiped the blade on the side of her uniform, and re-sheathed it by feel. "Is everyone okay?"

"We're fine," Hans confirmed. "Minor injuries only."

"The building's clear?"

"We're sending the cats through now." Valda's voice came from her other side. Then: "Captain, are you okay?"

Well, 'okay' might be stretching it at this point. Sigrun settled for letting out a groan. "I think I need a vacation."

* * *

 **A/N:** It is now my official headcanon that all of the cats in the Norwegian army are named after figures from Norse mythology.


	22. Mother Nature

**Prompt:** Mother Nature

 **Characters:** Aksel, Berit

* * *

For most of his life, he'd heard people gush about the beauty of nature. In some ways, he supposed, they did have a point: if you wanted to look at something pretty, there wasn't much that could compare to a roaring waterfall or sunset over the ocean. Aksel also knew something else, though, something that nobody else was willing to admit:

Nature was evil and it was trying to kill him.

Or maybe it was trying to kill everyone; he honestly couldn't have said. It just singled out him in particular with an alarming regularity.

The waves only ever overwhelmed the pier when he was standing out there alone. If ever a hostile wild animal wandered into Dalsnes, it was all but guaranteed to go straight for him. And of course when that rockslide ruined the road, who just happened to be driving home that day? He didn't think he'd ever be able to get behind the wheel of a car again after that.

Aksel couldn't exactly hold it against Nature, though; not really. Even if he did get angry, what was he supposed to do? Yell at the sky? Better to have a good laugh, enjoy life all the more because he knew how close it had come to ending, and be glad that this time, at least, he'd managed to get out unscathed.

His grandmother chortled a bit when he shared some of these thoughts with her as he warmed up by the fire, wrapped head to toe in blankets with a mug of hot tea, after an infected whale had dragged him under and he'd nearly drowned—it was sheer luck that he'd discovered only the previous month that the Rash didn't affect him, and his friends had let him get cleaned up and get inside rather than shooting him in the head to save him the suffering.

"Why do you think I moved to the city, pup?" she asked as she set her own tea aside. Then, however, her voice grew serious. "I think you have the right of it—there's no point getting angry at something without a will, that is only doing what it must. But that doesn't mean you should let it walk over you either."

When she got up and left the room, Aksel didn't have the energy to follow her—he was still too busy shivering. Instead, he simply waited for her to come back, and his eyes widened when he saw she was holding a rifle.

"You're not serious."

"Of course I am. This could save your life someday… or the life of someone you care about."

Later, he watched attentively as she demonstrated how to load, how to aim, and how to brace the gun against his shoulder before he fired. When she put it in his hands, he let her soothing voice wash over him as he took aim at the target—a herd of deer that was grazing near the outskirts of the village.

 _Nature is trying to kill me. Sooner or later, it will win. In the meantime, there's nothing wrong if I take what I need from it once in a while, too._

He didn't think he was ever going to learn to enjoy this. But maybe, he thought as he pulled the trigger, there was no harm in a bit of justified self-defense.


	23. Cat

**Prompt:** Cat

 **Characters:** Lalli

* * *

It had been following him around for as long as he could remember.

Lalli never thought to ask anyone about it. To him, it was the most natural thing in the world; it had always felt right to have the glowing, immaterial ynx by his side. When he was in the small community school at Saimaa, he watched it instead of the teacher, eyes roving around after it as it sat on a nearby desk or curled up at the foot of the chalkboard.

"Mister Hotakainen, what _are_ you looking at?" The teacher's voice drew his eyes back up to the chalkboard, and Lalli noticed that all of the other children in the room were staring right at him. He shrank further into his corner, pulling his cloak up over his head.

"Oh, Lalli does that sometimes," his cousin answered for him while he was still shrinking down into his chair. "He's still paying attention, I promise!"

"I really stuck my neck out for you there," Tuuri admonished him later, while they were walking home. "Do you even know what we're supposed to be doing in class?"

"I know," he answered shortly, and turned onto the path to his parents' house before she could say anything more. The spectral ynx, ever present, padded silently alongside him.

According to his grandmother, everybody had one; _she_ had a name for it. Lalli didn't bother. It was there, and it was his. It had no need of a name. It would always be with him.

Then, it suddenly wasn't.

When they fled Saimaa, nothing was familiar. The lake and the islands, the place that he'd known all his life, were gone, replaced by the scary new place where Onni had brought them. The clothes were different, the houses were different, the very air smelled different. Even the people were different, stern and unsmiling. When Lalli looked all around him for the one familiar thing, that was gone as well.

That night, he fell into a strange bed in a strange room where he couldn't find his ynx, and was overcome by a bone-deep weariness that dragged him down into an unrestful sleep.

He didn't know how long he slept. The next time he woke, Onni was there.

"It's gone, isn't it?" his cousin said without preamble. "Your luonto."

Onni stayed with him throughout his long unrestful sleep. Onni was the one who woke him up, and forced him to _stay_ awake long enough to eat and drink, and chanted spells over him to keep his body strong even as part of his soul wandered lost. One night, Lalli groggily blinked awake to see an insubstantial owl keeping watch over him while his cousin slept.

"Rest," it said. "Rest, and wait. It will return soon."

When he woke up that evening, it was to see his ynx sitting beside him once more.

Another person might have expressed words of gratitude, or wept in relief, but Lalli needed no words. Instead, he simply nodded, but nevertheless left the room for the first time since he'd arrived here with a profound sense of gratitude and his greatly relieved cousin by his side.

It felt good to be whole once more.


	24. Time Is Running Out

**Prompt:** Time Is Running Out

 **Characters:** Sigrun L.

 **Warnings:** This chapter contains some non-sexual nudity, and mentions of euthanasia

* * *

For the fifth morning in a row, she checked herself over.

By this point, she had a routine. She took her shirt off first and examined her arms, rotating her wrists this way and that until she could be sure she had left not a single square centimeter of skin unchecked. The upper arms were next: harder, but doable. Only once she was satisfied that the easy-to-reach parts were clear did she turn to the floor-length mirror that they had propped up against the wall before locking the door, and turn it around.

Nobody had been able to understand why she'd wanted a mirror. When they'd attempted to question her, however, she'd only told them to shut up and go find something. By that point they'd had an admittedly understandable reluctance to stick around, so they'd complied without asking any more annoying questions.

Now, once she could see herself, she took a step back and looked her bare torso over with the same critical eye. She spread her arms wide, turned first to one side and then to the next, tilted her head back to look at her neck, and lifted her breasts gently, feeling their tenderness.

The back was always the worst kind of pain. She had to use two mirrors: the big one on the floor and a smaller one she held in her hand. Then there was the matter of finding an angle where she could actually _see_ herself, where the mirror in front of her pointed at the mirror behind her without being half blocked out by her body, the obnoxious contortions of holding up the mirror with one hand and her hair with the other while also attempting to do a minute examination of every freckle and pimple on the back of her neck…

Yeah. Not a fan of that part.

If anything, the head was even worse, and she ended up asking herself every time why she hadn't gotten this over with first. Of course, she also ended up answering herself every time: that would have meant getting the mirrors out first. When she first started out, she wasn't ready to see herself reflected. Not right away.

It was impossible to get a good look at her scalp with a full head of hair, and shaving it… no. This was annoying enough as it was. Having to look at herself bald on top of it all was one line that she was not willing to cross. So instead she got up close to the mirror, and tilted her head as many angles as she could think of, parting the hair roughly and squinting at her scalp. She finished it off by running her fingers over her head from front to back, from the crown of her head right down to the back of her neck, behind her ears, making sure to maintain full contact with her scalp. When she was finally satisfied, she ruffled her hair vigorously and gave her head one last good shake until it fell back into place. The brushing would wait until after she'd put her clothes back on and had something to eat.

Only after she was done with her head did she drop her pants to the floor. Getting a thorough look at her backside was even more of a pain than her neck (or, to put it more accurately, a pain _in_ her neck, given all the contortions she had to make to even _see_ anything), but after that, the worst of it was over. The legs were simple: give it a few turns in front of the mirror and then another good look in person. Then…

She grimaced as she poked at the bandage on her ankle. That needed to be changed, today. They'd better not forget.

At least this part of her morning was over. The first thing she did was turn the mirror back around, even though she was now shivering and goosebumps were beginning to stand out all over her skin. When she'd finished, as always, she took a moment to brush a hand against her bare stomach. Then, and only then, did she put her clothes back on. Also as always, her eyes drifted to the pistol that sat on the small nightstand beside her bed.

"Not today," she said out loud as she got dressed.

She had just finished pulling on her jacket when a timid knock came at the door—right on cue. "Sigrun?" Aksel's voice was muffled by a breathing mask, but she could hear the tremble in it nonetheless. "Are you—?"

"Sorry?" she called back. "It's a little hard to hear you through the tentacles growing out of my face!"

The horrified squack from the other side of the door was as satisfactory as ever, and she burst out laughing as Aksel once again tripped all over himself begging her to please, please, _please_ tell him she was joking.

" _Yes_ , you dope! Now give me my breakfast already! I'm hungry!"

With no further protest, Aksel's hand pushed a tray through the cat flat on the bottom of her door. On it were a bowl of steaming porridge, a bottle of water, antiseptic, and some fresh bandages—so they _had_ remembered.

It had been an infected mouse. Their cat was getting old; a lot more of them got past him than used to. She'd stomped it good, of course… but not before it had got its claws into her.

No one understood why she was even bothering to dress the wound, she could tell. She also knew that they were too scared—or maybe too sympathetic—to ask. In all honesty, she wasn't entirely sure herself.

It wasn't even safe to breathe the same air as something with Rash, and she'd been _bitten_. There was no way she wasn't infected. Better to end it now, while she still at least had a choice in the matter—and she _would_ , at the first signs of actual rash. And yet…

Sigrun didn't know who she was kidding, with her insistence of waiting until the last possible second. She wasn't even showing yet—waiting one more week was not going to give the baby any more of a chance than waiting a few more hours. Not to mention that if _she_ was infected, than it certainly was. She hadn't even gotten around to telling Aksel.

 _Three more days_ , she thought, looking at the tally of marks she'd been leaving on the wall—she'd been counting them up against the longest known incubation period of the disease. _We've got three more days to live, at most._

She'd at least leave a note for Aksel, she thought, before she pulled the trigger. Though she had no idea what good it would do him, she also thought he'd want to know. The only thing that would get her out of this now was a miracle.

 _Three more days._

* * *

 **A/N:** Spoiler alert: this is how the first Sigrun found out she was immune.


	25. Trouble Lurking

**Prompt:** Trouble Lurking

 **Characters:** Sigrun, main crew

* * *

Don't think I don't know a mutiny in the making when I see one.

Oh, I know all about you, Mikkel—but I think that you knew that already. At least, I know that you're planning _something_. The problem is that I don't know _what_ , and I _know_ you're enjoying dangling that in front of my face. I've seen you smiling at odd moments, when there was nothing to smile about, usually after I've given you a _well-deserved_ scolding. I know the look of a man who's plotting his revenge.

Thing is, you won't answer me when I ask what's so funny. Instead, you evade, with all the skill of someone who has things to hide but is bad at straight lying. "Just thinking," you say.

The worst part is that I can't press. Show a mutinist you're suspicious of him? Bad idea. It only gives them an opening. I'll wait.

Oh, don't get me wrong. If it was just you, I could deal—which I suppose is why you dragged the kids into it as well.

I should've known from the moment I saw them out with you that you had Fuzz-Head and Freckles wrapped around your finger. Don't think I don't know how it works: take a couple of kids sneaking around behind their commanding officer's back, the kids remember you as the awesome one and everybody gets to let off some steam with no one the wiser. Been there, done that. Except when _I_ did it, I wasn't taking the kids into life-threatening danger.

Oh, and Stubby? You're not getting off the hook for this either. I don't care how innocent your face looks or how much you act like you worship the ground I walk on. I know you're up to something.

You don't get to hide behind the language barrier with me. Doesn't matter what language you're speaking, I know the sound of my own name. I _heard_ you talking about me to Troll Bait _and_ to your cousin (which probably means he's in on this as well), and don't think I don't notice when you're avoiding looking me in the eye. Seems the only one I can rely on here is my right-hand—

Oh, you made off with my dagger _and_ my gun now, Emil? Well that's just perfect. Must be hard, plotting behind your Captain's back when you can't lie to save your life and don't even have Mikkel's poker face going for you. Well, I'll give you one thing, kid: you've sure got guts. Cause once I'm feeling up to it, I'm gonna—

Wait a minute, what's this now, Mikkel? Getting ready to reveal your plot at last? You went ahead and brought the whole crew in with you, I see. Even the civilian kid who's only good for troll bait. I'm touched. No really, I am. At least you know how to do a mutiny right.

…you're asking what I'm mumbling about? Don't play dumb with me! I know what you've been—

…

You want me to drink something now? _Seriously?_

Oh yes, and you can _stop touching me_ if you want that hand to stay attached to your arm.

* * *

"Still feverish." Mikkel withdrew his hand from Sigrun's forehead with a sigh. " _And_ delirious, from the way she's been going on." Once again, he held out the steaming mug. "What if I told you it would give you a quick and painless death?"

"Ha ha, nice try."

"It'll help." Reynir tugged nervously at his braid. "It's the stuff my mom always gives me whenever I'm sick. Works like a charm." He let out a wistful sigh. "Just glad I thought to bring some with me when I left home."

Tuuri translated most of this, then added, "I had Lalli spell it some, so it'll work even better." She held up her grease-stained hands. "And look, I've been tinkering with the engine so we can turn the heat up more."

"Um… I'm just about finished cleaning your gun out," Emil offered awkwardly. "It ought to be working again by the time you're back on your feet." Under his breath, he added, "I hope."

"Now drink up." Once more, Mikkel proffered the mug. "Besides, undermining your authority is much more fun when you're up and about."

At long last, he coaxed her to drink it. After the mug was empty Sigrun wiped her mouth with an expression of disgust before coughing weakly. "Thought you said it was going to be a painless death."

"I might have lied a bit." He tucked the blankets around her shivering shoulders. "Now get some rest, Captain. That's an order."

"…all a bunch of mutinists," Sigrun muttered as she pulled the blankets tighter around herself.

* * *

 **A/N:** I'm still hypothesizing that Sigrun is going to end up sick from all those dunkings in icy water then walking around outside in the cold. Guess we'll find out at the end of this week.


	26. Tears

**Prompt:** Tears

 **Characters:** Onni

* * *

He couldn't let them see.

He was their only guardian now, their final pillar of strength. Now, he had to be both father and mother to them, nurturer, teacher, disciplinarian, provider… and all the while, he must never let on that he was just as much of a scared, lost orphan as they were.

The children must _never_ see him cry.

Somehow, he managed to get them out of Saimaa and to the nearest military outpost with hardly a single sniffle. Even if his eyes _were_ redder than normal, well, he _had_ gone almost 24 hours straight without sleep. (Not that they'd see him anyway, not when his sister was nestled sleeping against his chest and his cousin yawned beside him as he swayed on his feet.)

When they went into quarantine, he buried his face in his pillow and cried where nobody else could hear him, but made sure to keep his voice level whenever he talked to Tuuri through the speaker. He'd told Lalli to be good, to stay put and do whatever the military people outside told him to, but he still could not help but fret that they didn't know Lalli and he didn't know them; they wouldn't know how to deal with him if he got upset. Several times a day, he asked the guards to let him talk to Lalli, and every time, he made sure to erase any sign of emotion from his face and voice.

Then they were settled, and Onni had a job, and if the children weren't constantly underfoot, his coworkers were. Fortunately he'd managed to get better control of himself by this point, but once in a while he would remember his parents, his aunt and uncle, their abandoned village, and his childhood left behind in the dust, and bury his face in his hands as he struggled not to wail though his breath came in uneven gasps.

"Were you crying again?" Lalli asked one morning, with perfect bluntness, when he was returning from his scout training and Onni was just getting ready to wake up his sister.

"I think I'm allergic to this base," he said, with a perfectly straight face.

One night, his sister peeked in through the door of his room.

"Onni?"

"Tuuri?" He saw up straighter in bed. "What is it? Is something wrong?"

"Had a nightmare." She reached up to rub her fist against her eye. "Can I sleep with you?"

"Of course." As she pulled back the covers and she nestled in beside him, she let out a little sigh of contentment.

"Onni?"

"Hm?

"Is it okay if I cry too?"

The question hit him like a fist to the heart. "Of course." He wrapped his arms more tightly around her. "If you need to."

They held each other long into the night, and when morning came, it was impossible to say who was responsible for the wet spot on Onni's pillow.


	27. Friendship

**Prompt:** Friendship

 **Characters:** Trond, Onni

* * *

The first time was when Trond was taking him to the hospital. _Someone_ had to, or the stupid Finn would've… what? Sat there and let his ear bleed? Really, kids these days. Even the soldiers at Dalsnes knew when to get their injuries treated.

He'd almost refused to do it. Let him learn the hard way what happens when you leave an open wound to its own devices… but that would have meant taking the risk of being stuck in a room with Västerström's spawn himself, and if he absolutely _must_ babysit a snot-nosed brat, he'd rather it be the one who wasn't currently armed with any sort of sharp object. He'd had his fill of _that_ when Sigrun had been a kid, thanks.

There really _was_ no rest for the old and weary.

"So _what_ , exactly, possessed you to think it was a good idea to fall asleep while those brats were on the loose?" he could not help but ask as they walked back to headquarters, Onni's ear now wrapped in a lot of white bandages.

"Sister was in trouble." The response was muttered, automatic, and stilted in a way that told Trond it had been a very long time since he'd last used his Icelandic: his mind was somewhere else. "Would've happened anyway."

Yeah, he was going to leave that question pointedly unasked.

The second time was when Trond looked at him over the breakfast table after they'd both taken the team's report (Again! _Again_ they'd made him man the radio before giving him food!), and he'd found out that the team really _had_ been in danger the night before, and he'd been forced to listen to the Finn's blubbering after he'd finally finished talking to his sister. His hair was still lopsided, the large almost-bald patch only making what was left of it look even worse than it had before—did he cut his own hair?

"You look ridiculous."

Onni blinked, rubbed a hand over the bald spot on his head, and shrugged before going back to his breakfast. "It'll grow back."

Oh no. No no no. _Nobody_ on his team got to walk around looking like some sad involuntary kid punk. Not on _his_ watch.

This time, Trond held the scissors.

"Do you even know what you're doing?" Onni demanded when Trond made him sit on a kitchen chair, a ratty old bedsheet spread out beneath them to catch the falling hairs.

In response, Trond smirked. "I could tell you some stories, but you wouldn't believe them."

Days later, with no change of clothes and nothing of Torbjörn's that would have fit him, Trond was starting to wonder how this kid had _survived_ long enough to make it to Mora.

"I don't _care_ whether you think you need any worldly possessions," Trond informed him, drily, as they walked to the nearest clothing store. "You need to wash your clothes once in a while. You stink!"

"Don't have enough money for new clothes," Onni muttered, shoving his hands into his pockets.

"I'll pay." Onni opened his mouth. "If you're about to say something about charity, I'll think of a way for you to work it off. I am getting tired of manning that radio."

Onni closed his mouth.

As they walked back to headquarters, Onni in new shirt, new pants, new socks, new jacket, and even a new pair of gloves, Trond realized that this was the third time since the Finn had shown. For the third time, he had gotten the urge to look out for someone other than himself.

It was getting really annoying.

"Didn't you have any friends looking out for you in Keuruu?" he asked, impulsively, while they were making their way back.

"I didn't have any friends," he replied, not looking at Trond, the bag with his spare clothing thrown over his shoulder. "Didn't need them."

"Hmph. Me neither."

If upon their return anyone else on the ground crew noticed the smiles on the faces of the two men who never, ever smiled, they were all too thrown off-balance to ask.


	28. Sorrow

**Prompt:** Sorrow

 **Characters:** Mikkel

* * *

No matter how much time had passed, he never ceased to wonder why Kastrup had spared him.

A lot of people would say it was nothing but a lucky coincidence of timing—he excelled at getting fired, after all. Bound to happen sooner or later, and that he had managed it right before their crushing defeat was an accident, nothing more.

Mikkel didn't believe in magic. The last time some superstitious Icelander had claimed to see the hand of the gods in his survival, he'd offered her an incredulous stare and silence in return, but inside, he'd been gritting his teeth. What did _she_ know—what did _any_ of them know? _They_ could afford to believe in the gods, Iceland with its good fortune and Norway with its skilled fighters. If the gods had ever existed, he thought, they never had been on the side of the Danes.

No, Mikkel didn't see any supernatural influence in his lucky escape… but neither could he convince himself it was coincidence.

He'd known about the plans to attempt the reclamation. Even then, he'd had his doubts, his fears; had noted with worry that the winter air lacked its usual cold crispness. Even then, something uneasy had stirred in the pit of his stomach at the thought of making such a bold attack on the Silent World that had so easily claimed their country for its own.

Later, as he helped place one plaque of names after another on the wall of the tunnel, he'd ask himself whether even he would have dared play that face-cancer prank on half the army, if he hadn't known.

Now, he was asking himself whether he'd agreed to this mission as some bizarre form of atonement.

The thought was entirely ridiculous, of course. The dead were dead—the lucky ones, at least. Going into the Silent World himself, on a mission that most of his former colleagues had rightfully deemed suicidal, would not bring them back. At this point all he was doing was trying to assuage his own guilt, a useless endeavor if he ever saw one. Still…

"Hey, what are those names?"

"Those? It's the ones who fell during the great defeat of Kastrup."

"Oh."

To Mikkel, every name on that wall was a person, someone he'd known, someone he'd _loved_ … but to the little Finnish skald, those names, that defeat, were nothing but distant history.

Besides, he didn't have time to reminisce: it looked like the captain needed his help with the gate. The sorrow might never fade, but… maybe this trip would help him get some perspective after all.


	29. Happiness

**Prompt:** Happiness

 **Characters:** Reynir, Kitty

* * *

Sometimes, he thought it must be nice to be a cat.

That was one thing that Reynir had always loved about animals: they could be made happy by the simplest things. A nice salt lick, a pat on the head, a dangled length of string… Simple pleasures in a simple life.

Reynir's life was _not_ simple. Once, he'd thought that all that it would take to make him happy was a single carefree adventure, but instead he'd ended up out in the Silent World with a bunch of people who probably hated him for taking up space and eating their food. Even if things had gone exactly as planned, and he'd made it to Bornholm unscathed, he'd still have had the knowledge of his parents' worry to contend with—an innocent vacation now tinged by guilt.

"Wonder what Mom and Dad are doing now," he said out loud to the kitten, who was chasing sunbeams across the floor. "I bet they're worried sick."

Kitty didn't have to deal with any of that—her missing mother and buried siblings were already long forgotten. As long as she was warm and fed and had little spots of light to chase, she was content.

In the end, Reynir couldn't have said that this was good or bad. It just _was_ , and Kitty couldn't change her nature any more than he could change his. So instead of worrying about things he couldn't change, he took the end of his braid in hand, and dangled it in front of her waiting paws.


	30. Under the Rain

**Prompt:** Under the Rain

 **Characters:** Emil

* * *

It wasn't fair.

Bad enough that the mother cat had to die, even without the part where he was still questioning whether she _really_ had to—What if Mikkel had actually tried? What if Emil had gotten to her sooner, rather than wimping out because he'd thought the noise was a lurking troll?—but to lose four of her five kittens as well, not even to the beast attack but to cold. They were so _little_. It was like those times when he'd been a boy, holding one of his newborn cousins, terrified that he'd grip too tight and hurt the baby or hold too loosely and drop it—only instead of a warm, breathing life, his hands had cradled four unmoving lumps of cold flesh and wet fur.

The worst part was, he couldn't find anyone to blame—not Mikkel for choosing to conserve resources that might be needed for the human members of the crew later, not the gods he didn't believe in, not the poor dog that was as much a slave to the Rash as the woman on the train—not even himself. He'd done everything he could.

The rain soaked his hair and trickled into the collar of his jacket, a persistent chilly wetness that made him feel like he'd never be warm again. He stared out into the freezing downpour, looking out past Sigrun and into emptiness as she placed the rocks.

Emil didn't know why Sigrun had chosen to come out with him, much less put in the effort of making the burial herself; it wasn't like she actually _cared_ that those poor cats had died. Still… she _had_ gotten the mother cat off the pillar, and carried her all the way back to the tank along with the books. Maybe Emil should do as she'd advised him from the beginning, and accept the reality.

"There we go, you feeling any better yet?" Sigrun's hand patted his shoulder after she had set the last stone in place.

"…said I don't care."

She shrugged, and along with Mikkel turned back to return to the tank. _Come back when you're ready_ , her eyes seemed to say.

Lalli stayed.

* * *

After their return to the tank, Mikkel only shook his head and handed Emil a towel. Lalli was already leaning over the map and conversing with Tuuri in Finnish; there would be no point in getting _him_ dried off, not when he'd only be going right back out into the rain to scout. Water dripped from his uniform onto the floor and table; Tuuri nudged the map a bit so it would be farther away from the stray drops of water.

By the time he'd finished drying his hair, Lalli was gone, melting into the night. Mikkel was ready at hand to take his sopping jacket and undershirt, and then his pants and socks after he retreated into the sleeping area and peeled those off as well. The others had already changed into their casual clothes, dripping uniforms hanging from every surface in the tank that would hold them.

They didn't even know.

What had happened just now had seemed like a secret between him and Lalli—and the poor diseased dog he'd put out of its misery. It didn't seem right, to share it with others… but Emil knew that they would need to know. Lalli certainly wasn't sharing, and if Emil didn't tell them on his own initiative, they'd see the dead Beast come morning anyway, and _then_ there would be questions.

"There's something you should know." Sigrun raised an eyebrow, and motioned for him to continue. "After you went inside, the dog beast came back. The one that attacked the cats."

Mikkel turned his attention from wringing out Emil's jacket. "Give that you are not panicking, I take it the Beast is no longer a threat."

Emil shook his head. "Killed it." As evidence, he presented his dagger; the rainwater had washed away most of the blood, but a few thin streaks still streamed from the blade and clung around the hilt. "It didn't put up a fight."

"Then we can leave it until morning. If you would like to dispose of it then, you may." Mikkel gave the sleeve one last twist before draping the jacket from the back of the last available chair.

"Good job, Emil." Sigrun gave a wide yawn as she moved into the bunk area, but right as she moved past him, she paused a moment to rest her hand on his shoulder. "You did the right thing."

 _One dog freed from its miserable existence, one kitten's life saved._ Didn't seem like much… but it was better than nothing, and Emil would have to be content with that.

He sighed as he pulled up a chair, and resumed his vigil waving a piece of warmed tuna under the nose of the unconscious kitten.


	31. Flowers

**Prompt:** Flowers

 **Characters:** Sigrun, Reynir

 **Warnings:** Er... does "I used Google Translate" warrant a warning? Seriously, if anyone here is fluent in Norwegian or Icelandic, please feel free to point out any stupid mistakes!

* * *

Mikkel raised an eyebrow at her when she staggered out of the tank, but didn't bother to tell her she should be resting. "Would you like some more painkillers?" he asked instead. "As soon as I'm finished here—"

Sigrun shook her head. "What I would _like_ ," she grumbled, "is some food that doesn't taste like candle wax." Finding a convenient rock, she parked herself there; it hadn't been _that_ long, after all, and she needed to sit down. "How's that deer coming?" She nodded toward the butchered carcass that hung nearby.

"Very well. Dinner should be ready in about half an hour."

She nodded and leaned back against the side of the tank, letting the sunlight soak through her open jacket and into her black undershirt. The jacket itself wasn't in the best shape anymore, the most recent damage accumulating on top of three unexpected months' worth of wear and tear, but by the time she'd been ready to try getting up and moving again, it had at least been washed and mended, the jagged rents in the fabric neatly stitched back together. Sigrun plucked at it now, noting the neat, evenly spaced threads, barely noticeable at all unless you were actually looking. "You fix this?"

Mikkel, however, shook his head. "I haven't had the time. Reynir volunteered."

"Oh." Well that was only fair, she supposed. Speaking of which… "Hey, where did Freckles get to, anyway?"

"Over there." Mikkel jerked his head toward the grassy meadow out front of the tank. "We've been keeping an eye on him."

Looking in the direction he'd indicated, Sigrun could indeed see a long red braid streaming from in between the stalks of grass, but only just—the kid appeared to be sitting. "What's he doing over there?"

"He appears to have been picking flowers."

" _Flowers?_ "

"Flowers."

Well, everyone had their own ways of dealing, she supposed. Still… Sigrun shook her head. "You talked to him?"

"A little bit. I thought that letting him mend some of your clothing might let him feel as if he'd done something to repay you."

It seemed as if _something_ was still bothering him, though. Unless he really _was_ that spacy. Happily picking flowers in the middle of the Silent World… Sigrun shook her head.

"Sigrun."

"What?"

"I think you should talk to him."

She raised an eyebrow. "And say _what?_ In case you haven't noticed, I still don't know Icelandic."

"I think it would do him some good just to see you up and about. He also seems to be under the impression that you hate him, for some strange reason."

"Wait, really?" Mikkel raised an eyebrow. " _Fine._ " She pushed herself up from the rock. "Not like I've got anything else to do before dinner."

Just as she'd thought, he was sitting hunched over—and, just as Mikkel had said, his lap was full of blossoms that had been plucked from the meadow. Sigrun arched an eyebrow.

"Hey, kid."

Though she hadn't meant to sneak up on him, she nevertheless had the benefit of getting to see him jump what looked like half a meter off the ground, flowers flying everywhere to create what looked like a rain of blossoms. Reynir let out a cry of despair when he saw that his flowers were scattered.

"S-Sigrun!" Then he was babbling away in Icelandic, all of it sounding even more apologetic than his usual apologetic self.

"Hey, calm down." Her stitches pulled as she lowered herself to the ground beside him with a grimace, reminding her that yes, she still had three deep parallel gashes running across her ribcage and all the way around to her back, and that they'd barely begun to heal. "For faen, this is a pain."

Reynir saw. All at once he was talking again, gesturing at her injuries, and sweet merciful Odin, was he tearing up? No. No, she could not deal with this—especially when he ended his tirade by pointing at her arm, before letting out a sigh and turning back to look at his flowers, though his hands remained still in his lap.

"Seriously kid, don't mention it. You pull your weight out there, and I protect you. That's just how it works." Sigrun shrugged.

Reynir didn't look particularly reassured, but he did pick up the flowers again with a sigh.

Being unexpectedly stuck out here well into springtime had really done a number on their food supply. If they were going to survive long enough to be picked up, they had to hunt—and as it turned out, Reynir was really, really good at tracking animals. As far as Sigrun was concerned, when he'd ventured away from the camp with her and Emil, leading them to a nice fat herd of healthy deer, he'd been doing his job—just as she'd been doing hers when she'd shoved him to the ground and thrown her own body in between him and the attacking beast.

For a few minutes, they sat there in silence. Seriously, what was she even supposed to _say_ to him? A guilty civilian was bad enough, but a guilty civilian who didn't speak her language? What was Mikkel _thinking?_

"Þakka þér."

Sigrun looked. He was holding out a circlet of woven flowers, though he was looking at the ground and the expression of guilt was still on his face.

"Well huh." His face brightened as she took it and looked it over; this was followed by yet more talking that she didn't understand. Finally, at his gesture she allowed Reynir to lift it from her hands, where he placed it on her head.

"Well as far as gestures of undying gratitude go, I've sure had a lot worse." She smiled. "There was this one guy who kept asking me to bear his children. Even after I told him I wasn't interested in bearing _any_ children, let alone his. And let me tell you, it's really awkward to have to deck someone right after you've saved his life." She gathered her feet underneath her—it had been long enough, Mikkel ought to have _something_ ready by now.

In a flash, Reynir was on his feet and offering his hand. Just this once, Sigrun took it, and allowed him to pull her to her feet.

Reynir pulled ahead of her as they walked back to the tank, those lanky legs of his doing their job while she still had to take it slow. By the time Sigrun caught up, he had just finished talking to Mikkel, and was heading inside with bowl of food.

"What did he say?" Sigrun asked as she took her own serving. She declined to comment on his questioning look at the flowers on her head.

"He said that he would have liked to hug you, but he thought it would hurt."

"Heh. Tell him I appreciate that."

* * *

 **A/N:** This was partially inspired by a fanart someone drew of Sigrun and Reynir wearing flower crowns, and I started thinking that Reynir is exactly the sort of character who'd make a flower crown for someone who'd saved his life. This is now my official headcanon. All that vague backstory about them being stuck in the Silent World until spring was just an excuse for him to have access to flowers.


	32. Night

**Prompt:** Night

 **Characters:** (Prologue) Hotakainens

 **Warnings:** This chapter does contain a childbirth scene. It is not overly graphic.

* * *

There was no time that was not tense—but the nights were the worst.

When the sun went down, they turned off all lights and let the boat float dead on the water, walking on tiptoe and speaking in whispers until it was time to go to bed. Even after everyone else had dropped off to sleep, they set a watch, Kaino, Eino, and Tuuli (and Saku, once he was over his seasickness or at least not "dying" anymore) taking turns to sit stand fore and aft with a weapon in hand. At first, no one had wanted to trust Saku with a rifle… but the one time something actually _did_ need to be shot, he blew it out of the water with a single bullet while Eino was still scrambling to turn on his torch. They let Saku take all the night watches after that.

The hardest part was when the baby came.

Aino was in labor for almost fourteen hours and already anxious about not having access to a hospital, her muffled grunts quickly escalating into cries of pain that stopped just short of screams. All night it went on, while the others waited on tenterhooks and Saku stood quietly beside her and held her hand.

Dawn brought relief, but also new peril in the form of a screaming infant.

"What are we going to do if she starts crying in the middle of the night?" Kaino asked her brother, quietly, when the sun had risen high into the sky and mother and baby were both safe asleep.

"We'll think of something." Eino pinched the bridge of his nose. His face was sunken, dark circles showing underneath his eyes.

"Maybe it's time we settled down more permanently."

"Night's never not going to be dangerous," Tuuli lectured them a few weeks later, as they began building their first real settlement on one of Saimaa's tiny islands. "Horrors could be lurking in any corner, no matter how innocent it looks. Never let your guard down! Now chop chop, that wood won't cut itself!"

"Will she ever not be crazy?" Aino wondered out loud, as her sister and husband accompanied her off the boat.

"Nope," Kaino answered, far too cheerfully. "But it turns out that her kind of crazy is exactly what we needed, wouldn't you say?"

"I think I'm dying," Saku muttered as he leaned against her shoulder.

* * *

 **A/N:** Gonna be honest here: I cannot _stand_ babies, and the noise is a pretty big factor in that. There are times when I wonder how our species managed to survive when we reproduce so inefficiently.


	33. Expectations

**Prompt:** Expectations

 **Characters:** Torbjorn, Siv

 **Ship:** Mention of Emil/Lalli, mostly for comedic effect.

* * *

"Well all things told, I'd say this turned out rather well."

" _Well?_ The whole thing was a complete disaster from beginning to end!"

"Honey, don't say that. It's not like anybody died."

"Literally _all of them_ came back injured."

"They weren't serious injuries…"

"Your nephew is still in the hospital!"

"Only for observation! They'll let him out in two more days."

"Barring complications. What if that head injury turns out to be serious?"

"He'll be fine. He was perfectly happy the last time we visited him, remember?"

"It's _why_ he's happy that worries me. So many respectable families with children his own station…"

"Ah, young love is blind, don't you remember?"

"…and who does he decide he wants to spend the rest of his life with? That weird kid who doesn't speak a word of Swedish…"

"Do you remember when Father asked what your parents did for a living, and he was so shocked when you told him your father was a janitor?"

"…and their country is so _primitive_ , they don't have proper technology over there or anything (not that I have anything against our Finnish colleagues, of course, they've all been wonderfully helpful), but I swear they're not right in the head over there, do you know all of them actually believe the boy's really a _mage_ …"

"Honey, let them believe what they want! I'm sure it's just some ceremonial title anyway. My brother didn't raise his son to be a fool; if he's willing to be inducted into their religion, we ought to trust his judgement. It's harmless."

"…and what about that civilian they brought back? The Captain's already saying she wants him to be on their next mission, as an official member of the crew. Won't take no for an answer. We can't afford to _pay_ him, not after the Nordic Council refused to increase our budget…"

"I'm sure we'll think of something…"

"…and last time they barely brought back enough books to cover the cost of the mission and a 'cure' that turned out to be completely worthless."

"At least we won't have to sell the house now. That's something, right?"

"I suppose that it is."

* * *

 **A/N:** This is the part where I experiment with writing a dialogue-only chapter, without names, but in a way that hopefully leaves the identities of the speakers obvious.

Ah, marital bliss.


	34. Stars

**Prompt:** Stars

 **Characters:** Reynir, Lalli

* * *

Both of them had discovered independently that the sky in the dream world looked different from the night sky in ordinary waking life.

Lalli knew the night sky; he had to. His grandmother had taught him and Onni what her parents had taught _her_ , when they'd been living on the lake at Saimaa (not one of the islands in the lake, but the lake itself, on a boat that went from island to island ferrying supplies to the survivors as they'd trickled in). They'd always known how to find their way. Compasses were rare and could be confused by even the smallest of magnets. The north that they pointed to wasn't even _true_ north, whatever that meant.

The stars could not be confused. If he could find the right star, she'd explained, it would always point him true. They might hide their faces, but they would not lie.

Reynir had learned the stars in a similar manner. It was always possible to stay out too late, tracking down a lost sheep. The perils of his homeland were not many, and there had been times when he'd stayed out late of his own volition, mapping the stars and committing their patterns to memory. The constellations were like old friends to him, always reliable; they had never let him down before.

He was just he had a trustworthy sense of direction, even without the sky, because if he didn't, they certainly _would_ have been letting him down right now.

Sitting on the edge of his haven, absently petting the sheepdog at his side, Reynir squinted upward and tried to make sense of the sky. One minute he'd think he had managed to catch a glimpse of something familiar—the Plow, maybe, or the Crown—but then he would blink and realize that his eyes were playing tricks on him, that the stars fell in patterns that looked familiar at first glance, but only at first glance.

Letting out one last sigh, he looked away from the sky. His heart leapt.

"Heeeeey!" Confusion forgotten, Reynir jumped to his feet, waving frantically at the swampy woodland that was now within his line of sight—and the man who was standing on the edge, behind a protective barrier.

"Ph." Lalli crossed his arms over his chest with an expression that might have been disdain—though it was honesty a little hard to tell, with his face. "What do _you_ want?"

"Well, I'm all alone out here and it's beautiful but it gets really boring when there's no one to talk to and I thought that maybe we could talk. …or something." He realized that he was rambling, and shut his mouth. For a moment, they only stared at each other, and Reynir started to fidget in the uncomfortable silence. Though Onni had _eventually_ figured out that he hadn't known and explained to him that it was rude to break into another mage's area without asking first, he still didn't think that Lalli had forgiven him after that first time. It would explain why he did nothing but glare when Reynir was around.

"I noticed the stars are different here," he tried again, because he wanted to break the awkward silence and for lack of anything else to say.

"Yeah." To his surprise Lalli actually answered, folding his legs beneath him and sinking to the ground at the edge of his own haven. "If you wander, you'll get lost."

Reynir felt a big grin spreading over his face that for once, Lalli didn't sound as if he wished Reynir _would_ get lost. "So why are they different?"

Lalli shrugged.

"Do they change or something?"

"Maybe." Lalli was now twirling his finger around a stalk of grass at his feet. He looked bored.

Was Reynir _that_ boring? He nearly panicked again.

No. No, Lalli just didn't talk a lot… or maybe it was only that Reynir talked too much. Doing things his way clearly wasn't working—so maybe it was time to try Lalli's instead.

Shutting his mouth, Reynir leaned back onto the grass, and watched the sky without trying to understand the stars. Across from him, Lalli did the same.


	35. Hold My Hand

**Prompt:** Hold My Hand

 **Characters:** Emil, Sigrun

* * *

Emil felt like he was about to faint.

He couldn't much process how they got from the derelict building back from their campsite. The entire return trip was a blur of stinging cold, unstable rubble beneath his feet, and Sigrun's grip firm on his shoulders as she ordered him to "March!" The attack itself was even less real: a flash of teeth and claws, something scraping against his face, one last hot breath before Sigrun dropped the troll where it stood. He hadn't even realized how badly he was hurt until he put a hand to his face, and his glove came away red.

A scar… That was all he could think about as his captain hustled him back through the remains of a once-great civilization and refused to let him fall, as she gave him a hastily-torn scrap of cloth and ordered him to press it to the wound (which he somehow had managed, even in his daze), and as she pounded on the door of the tank and yelled for Mikkel to get his butt out here _now_. The troll's claws had opened up his face from cheekbone to jaw. His face was _ruined_. He was going to be marked for the rest of his life.

"Sit," Mikkel ordered, once they were in the office. Dimly, he registered someone pulling the hand with the cloth away from his face—Emil had forgotten that he'd even been holding it there. Mikkel looked him over for a few seconds, giving a few prods and a few "Mm-hms", before reaching for his bag.

When Mikkel began swabbing the wounds with antiseptic, he shuddered involuntarily— _now_ he was starting to feel it, the stinging seeming to cut right through the painkillers he'd taken. "This will go a lot easier for you if you stay still," Mikkel chided him as he dabbed the cloth one more time over Emil's face, and though he wasn't sloppy he wasn't being particularly gentle either.

Emil didn't bother to protest that he was _trying_.

Then, Mikkel was going for the needle and thread, and Emil cringed and closed his eyes. What if he cried, or fainted, or… or…

Try as he might, he could not hold back a whimper when Mikkel started sewing up his face. Though the pain was dulled by drugs, the thread pulling through his skin just felt so _wrong_ , and entirely out of reflex his arm jerked upward to clap a hand back over the wound—

—only to be caught in someone else's strong grip, and gently but firmly pulled away. Forcing his eyes open from where he'd screwed them shut, he found himself face to face with his captain, who'd pulled up a chair and was now sitting across from him, wearing a smile that was not her usual manic grin, but gentle and encouraging.

"…wasn't crying," he tried to protest in spite of the tears welling in his eyes, but then thought better of opening his mouth while Mikkel was still working. Was he done yet? This was _horrible_. He tried to glance to the side, but was interrupted when Sigrun snapped her fingers in front of his face.

"Nuh-uh," she said, her voice perfectly level, the same tone she used to give orders in the field. "Don't look at what he's doing. Eyes on me."

He gulped, again caught himself just in time to remember that it wouldn't be a good idea to nod, and instead gave her hand a brief squeeze. Just to show that he'd understood, of course.

"You'll be _fine_ ," she continued. "I've survived a lot worse than this, and here I am. Did I ever tell you about that time with the bear Beasts? No? Well, one summer there were three of them that wandered into Dalsnes all at once…"

By the time Mikkel had finished, Emil was gripping both of Sigrun's hands with all of his strength, and had completely lost the thread of the story. Instead, he kept his eyes on hers, and let the sound of her voice be his anchor as he struggled not to faint. It took him a few seconds to realize that Mikkel was no longer stitching, but was instead pressing a bandage to his face.

"This is finished." Mikkel was pulling away. "You can go."

"Huh? But I haven't even gotten to the good part yet."

Mikkel pinched the bridge of his nose. "Sigrun…"

"Oh, all right. I get it." Dimly, Emil realized that he was still holding her hands, and forced himself to let go; how had he not crushed her fingers? "Another time, yeah?"

"S-sure."

"You did great, kid." She clapped him on the shoulder as she left the room.

Emil couldn't quite hold in a sigh of relief. He'd been afraid that after they went back his commanding officer would tell the entire army that he was a huge crybaby, but it seemed that he was still her right-hand warrior.


	36. Precious Treasure

**Prompt:** Precious Treasure

 **Characters:** Mikkel

* * *

The exact weights and sizes and printed patterns might differ from nation to nation and time to time, but people all over the Known World still used the same metric to measure value. Colorful bits of paper. Pieces of metal, forged and molded into uniform shapes.

Did nobody understand the concept of true _value_ in this world?

Apparently not. A fun adventure, a chance to prove oneself, an opportunity to bash troll heads… nobody else who'd signed up for this mission had been invested in seeking the knowledge of a lost world, only in fulfilling their own selfish desires.

Even the man who'd funded the mission had seen the books they sought not for the precious treasure they were, only a means to help himself to more metal nuggets and slips of paper. After all, what was knowledge in a world ravaged by disease, to a family that was slipping into poverty? Only a way out.

"Soooo… you're gonna just read stuff… _voluntarily_ , is what you're saying?"

In some ways, he thought, Sigrun was lucky: born into exactly the right place at exactly the right time, with all the necessary skills for survival and happy with the world that she lived in. That still didn't stop her from grating on his nerves when she couldn't understand that he was less perfectly adapted.

"It's _one book_ that I happen to find particularly interesting." As if she'd understand—could she even _read?_ He was tempted to remind her of the golf book, but decided it wasn't worth the energy.

"Whoah, hey! No judgement here! To each their own, you know?"

Yes. Their own. Some were a good fit for the world they were born into. Others… not so much. Once Sigrun and Emil had left, Lalli had crawled under the bed to sleep, and he'd made sure that Reynir was out of harm's way and not bothering Tuuri, he sat down beside her, picked up the first page of Tuuri's transcript, and began to read.


	37. Eyes

**Prompt:** Eyes

 **Characters:** Mikkel

* * *

He could not for the life of him figure out why everyone who found out insisted on telling him. He could manage _just fine_ as he was, thank you very much.

 _So what_ if he hadn't seen the hole in the bottom of the pan? When one of your crewmates generously offers you the use of her saucepan, there shouldn't be any _reason_ for you to suspect that there's a hole in it—much less that it's been taped up with cardboard. That could in no way, shape or form be put down to any fault of his.

His crewmates, he knew by voice, hair color, and build—they were different enough in their overall aspects that he didn't _need_ the fine details to tell them apart. A flash of red hair, long or short; a sparkle of golden locks; chattery little Tuuri or her silent, skinny shadow—that was all that he needed.

"Does _nobody_ here know how to aim?!"

Aiming was not in his job description! He wasn't here to bash troll heads; he was here to patch up the people who did. That was close work, where he didn't need to squint in order to focus. _Emil_ was the one she should have been yelling at; if he'd managed to hit the thing in the first place instead of spraying bullets every which way, it wouldn't have lived long enough to hide under the snow—but as always, it seemed as if her "right hand warrior" could do no wrong.

"If only I knew where to begin searching."

"Medical building?"

…okay, so maybe it _would_ have been helpful if he'd been able to spot the building with the giant red cross on it without Tuuri's help… but surely he would have found it on his own. Eventually. Besides, Sigrun caught them anyway; it wasn't like running a few minutes later in his search would have made any difference in the long run.

Lying in bed that night, stomach still rumbling from his interrupted dinner, tired from the long walk, the adrenaline crash, and staying up far too late to tend to Sigrun's injuries, Mikkel ran a hand over his eyes, and sighed.

" _You're nearsighted,_ " they'd told him, back when he was still a teenager. " _You need glasses._ "

" _I can manage fine without them,_ " he'd coolly informed them in return, and then refused to wear them when he'd received a pair anyway, and left them to sit and gather dust as his vision steadily worsened until the correction they provided was no longer sufficient. Nobody had bothered to pressure him into getting another pair—glasses were far too expensive to be wasted on stubborn teenagers (or, eventually, on stubborn adults) who put their pride before their ability to perceive the facial features of any person with whom they weren't standing nose to nose.

It didn't hamper his ability to do any of his work—that is, the work he'd actually been _hired_ for. Even if he did have to do something else, he'd figure it out. He always had.

Still, Mikkel could not help but curse his eyes for their betrayal as he drifted off to sleep.

* * *

 **A/N:** Witness the reaction of Teenage Me to needing glasses! (Of course, this is one of those times when I desperately want to smack Teenage Me upside the head, because if not for Teenage Me being stubborn and stupid about stuff that wasn't "natural", then Present Me's vision might not have kept on getting _worse_. Ugh.

(Seriously, kids, if you need corrective lenses, _wear them_. They will _not_ keep your eyes from fixing themselves "naturally". What they _will_ do is keep your blurry vision from getting even _more_ blurry.)

*ahem* At any rate, this is building on an idea that was once bounced around in the comments section, that Mikkel has poor vision but can't afford glasses/is too proud to admit it. Aside from the evidence mentioned in-chapter, there's also the possibility that his eyes often appear to be closed because he's _squinting_. Just some food for thought.


	38. Abandon

**Prompt:** Abandon

 **Characters:** Emil, Lalli, Kitty

* * *

Lalli's bed was empty.

For a few seconds, Emil only stood staring, the bowls of food he brought inside weighing heavy in his hands. At the creak of a floorboard behind him, he whipped around, to come face to face with their medic.

"Lalli's gone." The words came out of his mouth of their own accord, without any thought behind them at all. Lalli… _gone_ … What had _happened?_

"Hm, yes." Mikkel was rubbing his chin. "I did warn him not to go to. far, but I'm afraid he didn't—"

"Wait, _what?_ " His mind was now whirling; forming coherent sentences was a difficulty. " _When?_ "

"This morning, while I was cooking breakfast," Mikkel said slowly, with the same tone one would use to explain to a toddler that he won't be allowed dessert until he eats his vegetables. "I was just getting ready to take it off the stove—"

" _Lalli's awake?_ " Apparently, he still had not managed to process that single, simple fact. "Why didn't anybody _tell_ me!?"

"I thought that you had noticed. You were standing right beside the door when he came out of the tank."

Right beside the door? Was this another one of the Dane's sick jokes? "If you're trying to make me look stupid again—"

"Hey, what's with all the racket?" Sigrun stuck her head into the tank, balancing her own bowl of porridge in her good hand. "I will _not_ have us switch campsites again because you two didn't know when to shut up."

"Emil didn't notice when Lalli woke up, and is now convinced I kept it from him out of spite."

"Oh, is that all?" Sigrun shrugged. "Yeah, he came out while you were coming up with dumb names for Pusekatt. Thought you'd seen him."

Mikkel, he'd expect to play this sort of prank on him—but not Sigrun. With a swallow, Emil accepted the far more likely possibility that what they were saying was true. "Where could he have _gone?_ "

"I suspect not far. He didn't leave the tank that long ago."

Emil didn't bother to tell him how _fast_ Lalli could move when he wanted to.

"Twig's gotta eat sometime." Sigrun clapped him on the shoulder. "Don't worry, he'll come back when he's hungry."

…except he was pretty sure Sigrun had never noticed that Lalli was such a fussy eater that half the time he'd rather let himself starve than eat Mikkel's slop. If he really wanted to, Emil was sure he could stay out in the Silent World for hours, days… even supposing he didn't get hurt, or lost, or… or…

Before Emil even knew what he was doing, he had dropped the food and was running out of the tank, frantically scanning the fields around their campsite for any sign of a skinny Finnish scout. "LAL—"

A third bowl clattered to the floor, and hot slop poured down his back as a hand clapped over his mouth, cutting off his shout. Sigrun had pulled him in close against her, her hold on him surprisingly strong for all she had the use of only one hand; for a few seconds he struggled instinctively before sagging in defeat.

"You done panicking yet?"

Tears of defeat welling in his eyes, he nodded. Sigrun released him, and he staggered forward.

Mikkel, meanwhile, was surveying the three dropped bowls. "Half our breakfast, gone to waste…"

"That sludge barely qualifies as food anyway." She turned back to Emil with a sigh. "Look, if I let you go out and look for him will that make you feel better?"

Well, it wasn't what he'd been hoping for, but it was better than nothing. He nodded.

"You see a troll or a beast, kill it and get back here—but no gunshots, and no fireworks. Be back by noon, with or without the scout.

"Are you sure that that's wise?" he heard Mikkel ask as he walked away. "Letting Emil walk around an unscouted campsite like that?"

"Which is exactly why we need the scout back. Besides, it'll do him some good to get a bit of practice killing stuff."

"Miu."

Emil looked down. There, padding along beside him, was little Kissekatt.

"Oh. Did you want to come?"

Her plaintive meow was answer enough. Smiling, Emil bent to scoop her up and place her on his shoulder, where she began purring immediately.

"I guess it wouldn't hurt to have a bit of company." _Not to mention a warning if something's about to eat me_ , he thought, but didn't say out loud.

Not even thoughts of getting eaten were enough to distract him from his real mission, though. As he stepped into the trees, Emil took the time to look around.

"Lalli?" he ventured in a whisper—he had the feeling that Sigrun would kill him if he tried shouting again. For a moment, he stood still and listened, but there was no answer—at least, not one that he could hear over the wind in the bare branches.

If he were Lalli, where would he have gone?

Somewhere quiet, somewhere safe. Had they been making too much noise? Was that it? His heart sank as he realized what it must have been like for Lalli, the night scout who hated crowds, to wake up to all of them yammering away like a murder of crows.

Kissekatt jumped down from his shoulder.

"Hey, where are you going?"

Somehow, it never even occurred to him not to follow, or that maybe he should run back and get Sigrun first. A cat's instincts were always to be trusted, and this cat wasn't hissing or spitting—only determinedly running forward, as if to a destination.

…to a _tree_.

Emil looked up.

There, sitting on a high thick branch, his back resting against the trunk, was _Lalli_.

Emil sagged with relief. Lalli was awake, and he was okay. "Thank goodness I found you!"

Kissekatt was already scaling the trunk, climbing one paw after another in her clumsy, baby way. Emil tried to follow, but whatever handholds Lalli had used to get himself up there, he couldn't find them. After a few attempts that all ended with him sliding a good half meter down and getting bark scraped off all over his uniform, he was forced to give up and looked back up at Lalli, craning his head. "I can't get up there. You're going to have to come down."

Kissekatt, meanwhile, had just reached Lalli's height, and put out a paw to pull herself onto the branch. Before she could even touch it, though, Lalli turned toward her with narrowed eyes, hissed a warning so vehement that she pulled back in fear and flattened herself against the trunk, and then turned away.

"Lalli!" he chided. "That wasn't very nice." Emil took a step back so he could look up at Lalli without craning his head quite so much. "What did that poor kitten ever do to you?"

For a second, those silvery eyes were turned on him, and Emil now found himself on the receiving end of a death glare the likes of which he hadn't seen on his friend's face since their very first mission.

Their first mission…

" _You_ _abandoned_ _me_ _first!_ "

"I wish that I'd been there when you woke up." With a sigh, Emil shrugged off his bandolier and sat down at the base of the tree, leaning his back up against the bark. "But I needed to just take some time and relax outside with the others too, you know? Mikkel and Tuuri said that you were fine, so I guess I just kind of assumed that you were."

There was no answer in return, but then again, Emil did not expect there to be: Lalli had never talked back at him, even though he must know Emil wouldn't mind being unable to understand his words. Instead, he kept talking, hoping that in some way or other, the meaning of his words would get across.

"We'd had a pretty rough night, ourselves. You should have Tuuri tell you about it when we go back—well, Tuuri didn't even _see_ the whole thing. You just started screaming in your sleep, for no reason… or maybe there was a reason. I guess you'd know more about that then I would." _And maybe someday, you'll find a way to tell me._

"A few seconds after that, Sigrun and Mikkel fainted. Both of them. At the same time. Again for no reason. Then the next thing I know, Tuuri's driving away screaming something in Finnish.

"Even after they came to, _nobody_ knew what was going on. We were driving around the Silent World at night. We didn't have a map, and we were in an area you hadn't scouted yet. We came to a roadblock. Sigrun wouldn't let us turn back, so she and Mikkel got out to clear it and I ended up standing guard."

Again, he paused in his story to sneak another look up into the branches of the tree. He could see maybe a glimpse of Lalli's glove hanging over the edge of the branch, but nothing more. Lalli was far too _skinny_. Emil resolved to get him to eat something, _anything_ , after they got back to camp—whatever it took.

Even if he had to shoot a deer and make Mikkel butcher it, Lalli was in need of a good meal. Really, it was the least he deserved.

"Anyway, I… got attacked by trolls. But I set them on fire! All of them!" Even when talking to someone who didn't speak his language, that was _probably_ as much as Emil needed to share. It wasn't like he was lying or anything. "By the time I got back to the others, though, Sigrun was soaking wet and she and Mikkel were being attacked by a really big troll. We got away, but we had to keep walking _forever_ just to get back to the tank."

After that… well, everything after that had been one big sleep deprivation induced blur. Emil had stayed awake just long enough to go through decon—if not for Mikkel's hands on his shoulders guiding him back to his bunk, he might have curled up right there in the back. He'd gone to sleep right away, his eyes slipping closed even before his head had touched the pillow.

Waking up the next morning had been one of the best feelings Emil had had for as long as he could remember. Bright sunlight, crisp air, the smell of sludge cooking, being able to debate stupid things like kitten names with Sigrun and Tuuri—that morning had been a gift, and he'd known it. They were alive. They were unhurt. Whatever nightmare the previous day had become was gone, burned away like a wisp of mist in the morning sun.

"Look, Lalli. I didn't mean to ignore you, I swear. I just didn't realize you were there. But for what it's worth… I'm sorry."

There was a sound of shifting cloth above him. Looking up once more, Emil saw Lalli's face peering down at him from the side of the branch. This time, though, he wasn't glaring anymore—his face only bore the same inscrutable, incurious expression that he always wore.

Tentatively, Emil smiled. "Come down?"

Lalli shook his head. He gave a sigh. Then, he swung down off the branch.

He'd only gone a little way down when Kissekatt mewed plaintively—though she had managed to climb up on her own, the poor thing didn't know how to get back down again. "Lalli—"

Before he could even finish his request, however, Lalli was already pulling the kitten from the trunk of the tree and settling her on his shoulder, whispering something in Finnish that sounded like an amused scolding before resuming his climb back down.


	39. Dreams

**Prompt:** Dreams

 **Characters:** Reynir

* * *

Reynir loved his siblings, and he would certainly never wish ill on any of them… but that didn't change the fact that his relationships with them were tainted with more than a touch of envy.

It hadn't always been that way. Once, he had been blissfully aware that there was any difference between them, content only to wave happily as he rode atop his big brother's shoulders, or to scream with laughter as one of his sisters shoved him under the hay.

He could still recall the first time he'd asked his mother what im-yoon-i-tee was. She'd gone very, very still, tucking her hands beneath her apron to hide their shaking.

"If someone's immune, that means they can't get Rash."

That time, at least, he didn't ask anything more.

The first time he could ever remember feeling it, however, was well before he truly understood what that meant. Long before they'd told battle stories from their awesome jobs that he couldn't have, Reynir's brothers and sisters had sat at the breakfast table, and shared their dreams.

"It was wonderful," his oldest sister said one morning. "I was flying, just flying, over the ocean, without any wings at all—like a bird." She let out a sigh of pleasure. "I didn't want to wake up from that one."

"I was being chased by something… a Beast, I think." His oldest brother shuddered as he recounted the tale. "I didn't wake up until it was nipping at my heels."

"So I hear you had an… _interesting_ dream last night," that same brother said on another occasion, as he playfully elbowed their middle brother in the ribs.

"Sh-shut up!" he stammered in reply, his face going red, at the same time their mother hissed "Children! Not in front of Reynir!"

"So did you have any dreams last night, Reynir?" his youngest sister (even though she was more than ten years older than he was) asked one morning, after the rest of them had finished swapping stories.

"What's a dweam?"

They all had a good laugh at the question, of course, after which his oldest sister patiently explained to him that when people slept, they kept on doing things in their sleep—things that felt real, but were often impossible in waking life.

Reynir had frowned intently (an expression which his siblings would later tell him had looked immensely adorable on a four-year-old), and said that that had never happened to him.

"Maybe it has and you just don't know it. See, when you're sleeping…"

After all four of his siblings had taken a turn explaining it, and Reynir still insisted that he had no idea what they were talking about, they were no longer laughing.

"Guess he's just a heavy sleeper," his middle brother said, taking a moment to ruffle his hair before the conversation turned to other topics.

Even as he turned back to his breakfast, however, Reynir noticed his father watching him with an expression he would later realize was fear.

 _I suppose he knew_ , he thought to himself now as he lay on the floor of the tank in the middle of the Silent World, a near-stranger sleeping pressed up against his side and the vision with the disembodied voice still playing in his head.

In all honesty, he still wasn't sure what to feel about that. As it turned out, almost everything his parents had told him—about the Rash, about the outside world, and even about himself—had been a lie. Had they lied to him about this as well? Had his father known he was a mage, and not told him?

They'd wanted him to stay at home. They'd been willing to do anything in their power, even spend his entire life lying to him, to keep him there. For the first time since he'd found himself in the Silent World surrounded by five strangers and longing to go home, Reynir began to wonder whether anything would ever be the same if he chose to return there.

 _If…_

The thought surprised him. True, right now he was relying on Sigrun and Mikkel go protect him just as much as he'd once relied on his parents. But he'd still taken initiative and actually _done_ something for once in his life. He'd spent days in the Silent World and was still alive and uninfected. He was a mage. Right now, the world was looking much wider than he had ever known it could possibly be. Did he _really_ want to go back to a life of herding sheep?

Once, he'd insisted to his siblings that he had no dreams. Maybe it was time to change that.


	40. Dragons

**Prompt:** Dragons

 **Characters:** Sigrun

* * *

 _You can do this_ , she thought.

Sigrun knew why she was doing this. You could listen to the stories, you could do some rough play with your peers, you could train and train and train until your limbs dropped off, but there was no way to prove yourself in the field except by being out _in_ the field. Every recruit went through this. The higher-ups needed to know you could be relied on in a pinch.

Of course, that didn't change the fact that she was locked up in an arena with a monster that had a good two meters and probably several hundred teeth on her.

With a roar, the troll slithered forward on its many legs, jaws opening wide at the end of its long neck. Sigrun leaped behind a rock as it struck, gripping her dagger in trembling fingers. They'd given her a big one, Thor help her.

There was a wheeze behind her, and hot breath washed over her face. No time to think: Sigrun vaulted the rock and leaped right at it, slashing her dagger protectively in front of her face.

A spray of warm blood splattered over her face, and the troll roared in pain: a lucky hit, but one that would not take it down. Its long, sinuous tail lashed out to smack her in the stomach for her pains, sending her sprawling back over the ground. She managed to roll to the side just in time to avoid the thing's claws, which slammed into the ground where she had been only a split second before. Barely had the claws retracted but Sigrun had to scramble to her feet and flee its snapping jaws.

She probably wasn't going to die in here. _Probably._ Even though Sigrun was supposed to make this kill alone, there was a group of more experienced Hunters standing by, ready to come to her rescue if she got in over her head—but it was easy to forget that fact when you were locked in battle with a very angry troll that was doing its utmost to take your head off, not to mention that if she needed help in this, her Initiation, her dreams of joining the military were dead. She would never be respected as a Hunter if she could not even do this.

Again, Sigrun was on her feet, and again, the troll was coming at her with an angry roar. Rib bones webbed by membranes spread from its back, its face bore a threatening snarl at the end of its long neck, and its many legs stretched forward with wicked claws bared.

If she was going to kill it, she _needed_ to get at that head. Still gripping her dagger, she ran—to the side.

The troll roared and scrambled after her, but Sigrun was already on the move, using the rock she'd ducked behind earlier as a stepping block to launch herself into a leap. She landed hard against its flank, plunging her dagger into its hide to use as a handhold until her scrambling boots managed to find purchase. Then she was running atop its back, up along its spine, slashing the membranes out of her way, until she finally reached the base of the thing's neck. The neck was far too slender for her to balance atop it, but Sigrun was ready for that; she took a flying leap, and felt a few seconds of airborne weightlessness before she slammed into her target, wrapping both legs and her free arm around the end of the neck as she hit. Raising the hand that still held the dagger, she struck: once, twice, decisively and with force.

The thing gave one last keening cry before it went limp and fell to the ground with a shudder.

Sigrun was exhausted, covered in slime and blood, but she was grinning like a maniac at the cheer that went up from the watching officers. She had done it! She had proven herself in battle, and come out the other side with no injuries worse than bruised ribs. Whatever happened next, this moment would be with her for the rest of her life.

Of course, before she could be officially acknowledged she had to get cleaned up, and then wait patiently for the recruits who hadn't gone yet to have their turn. At long last, though, she was in uniform—uniform!—as Uncle Trond—no, _General Andersen_ —stood before her, imposing in his furs and medals, and presented her with her first ceremonial dagger.

"Welcome to the Hunters, Private Eide."

* * *

 **A/N:** First thing I thought of when I saw the word "dragons" was a coming-of-age ritual that involved slaying a dragon. So here you are.


	41. Teamwork

**Prompt:** Teamwork

 **Characters:** Reynir, (almost) everybody else

* * *

It was almost inevitable that Reynir would end up assisting someone, really—he was so eager to please and so determined to be useful. Mikkel, at least, had at last made the concession and bowed to the inevitable, and started allowing him to assist with the cleaning just to keep him out from underfoot of the others.

Tuuri had also grown to tolerate him increasingly more often, aided by Reynir's realization that she needed peace and quiet to work. So instead of attempting to talk, he'd go into the office and just sit, quietly. As he sat there looking at the pictures in a book of his own or dangling a string for the kitten, she would occasionally say "Ink just ran out" or "I'm going to need more paper soon," and Reynir would rush to get it.

All of this was well and good. Reynir got to feel useful and have the occasional conversation with someone who spoke his language; Mikkel and Tuuri got an extra pair of hands when they needed one; everyone else got Reynir out of their hair so they could do their own jobs. Everyone benefited. Simple, straightforward.

Which was why Mikkel was incredibly confused when, after he'd finished his washing-up, he went to put their breakfast dishes away only to find Sigrun and Reynir sitting side by side on the ground.

Sigrun was cleaning her rifle, which in and of itself was not unusual. Nor was he overly surprised to see Reynir watching; there wasn't a whole lot for a civilian to do around this tank, and sometimes it was either watch Sigrun disassemble her gun or watch Lalli sleep. Mikkel was about to walk right on past them with the clean dishes when he did a double take.

Sigrun had been wiping down the chamber; her nose crinkled in distaste as she looked at the rag she'd been using, which was now covered in black splotches. (Just what he needed, more washing.) Wordlessly, she tossed it to Reynir, who caught it in equal silence before placing a clean rag in her outstretched hand.

By the time Mikkel had finished returning the dishes to their rightful place, Sigrun was reassembling the gun, and—he raised an eyebrow—Reynir was handing her the pieces (in the correct order, if Sigrun's lack of complaints was anything to go by). After giving the rifle one last thorough wipedown, she finished by raising the gun and sighting along the barrel, away from the tank and toward the nearby forest. Her finger squeezed the trigger, and the gun let off a crisp click.

"Perfect." She took a brief moment to ruffle Reynir's hair as she got up—he was already putting away all of the cleaning supplies.

Well, he supposed as he removed his apron, as far as stowaway civilians in their food supply went, they could have done far worse.


	42. Standing Still

**Prompt:** Standing Still

 **Characters:** Sigrun, Emil

 **Soundtrack:** You may listen to "I'll Make a Man Out of You" while reading this. I will have no objection.

* * *

Some people claimed that the First Rule didn't actually work, but that was only because the First Rule was also taught to frightened civilians who couldn't stay silent _enough_.

Or, alternately, because it was taught to recruits like Emil.

"Okay, that's it," Sigrun declared one day, after he'd run screaming from yet another troll shrieking fit to break glass and spraying bullets all over the place.

"I know." Emil slumped where he sat, his still-wet hair hanging limp over his shoulders, wearing an expression that made him look like nothing so much as a kicked puppy. "I'm a horrible soldier. I never should have joined the military." He buried his face in his hands. "If you want me to stay behind next time…"

"And let the talents of my right-hand warrior go to waste?" She clapped him on the shoulder. "All you need is a bit of a crash course."

"You mean, as in a class?"

The very thought was enough to make her face twist in disgust. "Psh! Who needs school when we can do something a bit more fun?"

That evening, when they were finishing dinner, Sigrun got up without a word and circled around behind the tank. Taking care not to make any unnecessary noise, she then climbed on top of it, counting on Tuuri's chattering to cover for her if she made a slip.

Just as she'd hoped, the others were only just beginning to disperse—Mikkel was collecting dishes, and Reynir was following him around like a puppy while chattering in an endless stream of Icelandic. Tuuri was giving instructions to the scout. Meanwhile, Emil… excellent, he was sitting off to the side by himself, arms crossed and eyes on the ground that made it clear he had yet to get over his sulk.

People had complained that Sigrun was ear-piercingly loud and obnoxious, and those were all accusations she would cheerfully accept—but she would not be alive today if she didn't know how, when, and where to keep quiet. She waited patiently, keeping still. Lalli put his hood on and ran off into the night. Tuuri turned to Emil. "You coming in?" He shook his head and gave a curt "No," and she went back inside with a shrug.

Now was her chance.

Taking a rock in hand, Sigrun scratched it lightly on the side of the tank—barely loud enough for Emil to hear. Immediately he tensed.

"M-Mikkel? Did you hear that?" Mikkel was out of earshot, though, and already suds-deep in the washbasin. Emil turned his head this way and that, rising slowly to his feet as he groped for his dagger. "Lalli? _Sig_ —"

The second he raised his voice, Sigrun struck.

Immediately she was leaping on top of him, clapping one hand over his mouth while the other expertly twisted his knife hand behind his back. For a few seconds he struggled, and for a few seconds Sigrun let him, before slackening (but not _releasing_ , she'd rather not get her face slashed today) her hold on his arm. "Relax kid, it's me."

He was stiff for only a few seconds more, before collapsing to the ground in a boneless heap. "Sigrun? _Are you trying to kill me?_ "

"You hurt?"

"I don't think so…"

"Then you're fine." She stood, dusting her hands and grinning at the thought of a job well done. "If I'd been a troll, you would have been dead."

From that point onward, she didn't let up.

"Dead," she declared after swinging down from a tree and wresting his flamethrower right out of his hands.

"Dead," when he fell on his rear end right into a puddle.

"Dead," when he panicked and spilled his dinner all over himself.

"If you give that boy a heart attack before we get back to civilization," Mikkel informed her gravely over breakfast, "my medical report is going to read 'Death by Eide'."

"Just making sure it isn't death by troll." She shrugged, shoving another spoonful of porridge into her mouth.

Emil was getting better, too. He only shrieked like a five-year-old every _other_ time now. The rest of the time he was finally starting to do as he was supposed to, and not panic when she snuck up on him. His real test, however, would be in the field.

They had separated again. Sigrun was rounding a corner, just about to tell him it was time to head back, when she saw Emil, sheathing his knife, splattered with blood and a dead troll at his feet.

"Tried to get the drop on me," he explained when she raised an eyebrow. "It wasn't quiet enough."

Sigrun grinned. She'd have liked to rave and yell about how _awesome_ that kill was, but she supposed a thumbs-up and a slap on the back would have to suffice.


	43. Dying

**Prompt:** Dying

 **Characters:** Emil, the rest of the crew

 **Warning:** Major character death. Plural. _All_ the major character deaths.

 **Soundtrack:** "Times They Are A-Changin'". Which specific version or cover is your choice, but I'm personally rather fond of the Blackmore's Night version.

* * *

It honestly surprised no one that Sigrun was the first to go. That didn't make the blow any less strongly felt.

Twenty-one years. Only twenty-one years since their first mission, and their first true reunion was to attend a funeral.

Each made the journey in their own way: by train, by boat, watching different landscapes and hearing different languages go by in silence.

In Dalsnes, they were greeted by a lot of friendly soldiers: some of them overly so. Emil had to intervene a few times before Lalli slapped someone out of his personal space. For the most part, however, they were in awe: her personal protégé and "right-hand warrior," her second-in-command, the heroes she'd led into the great unknown and back, returning to her home at last.

They drank. Her former comrades insisted upon feasting and drink as they told tales to celebrate her memory. Reynir, in his Master's mage robes, was unfocused and red-faced after the first glass of mead. Lalli stayed just long enough for courtesy's sake, before getting up and leaving the room—Emil made his excuses. Mikkel sat through the whole thing, stone-faced and expressionless. Tuuri laughed too loudly.

Emil listened to the story of her heroic giant-slaying, and all he could think was that she must have died in agony.

"We'll miss you, Captain," he said (though Sigrun had long ago moved far beyond that rank, she would always be Captain to him), and took a drink.

Lalli was far more of a surprise—and an even worse blow.

There had been a breach. Every able-bodied soldier had been required to contain the outbreak. Lalli had gone out beyond the safe zone again and again without hesitation, and Emil breathed a sigh of relief every time he came back, carrying a stranded child or covered in blood not his own… right up until the time when he didn't.

Emil waited all the rest of that night and all the next day, puffy-eyed with more than missed sleep, fighting the urge to abandon the hundreds of people who needed him right where he was and go search for Lalli himself. Instead, he sent out as many scouts as they could spare, and watched them come back one by one with no information.

Still, he refused to believe it until he'd traveled all the way to Iceland and made Reynir do a search in the dream plane. Though they still had no words for each other, Reynir's deliberate shake of his head with closed eyes told Emil all he needed to know.

Surprisingly, Tuuri followed soon after.

Emil had not even finished mourning Lalli when his cousin collapsed with a mysterious nosebleed in the middle of a diplomatic trip from her native Keuruu all the way to Bornholm via the new high-speed rail line that ran out of Stockholm. Within twenty-four hours she was in a coma and could not wake; even the best doctors could not say what was wrong with her, and Emil felt shivers run down at his spine at the memory of another nosebleed, another collapse, and Tuuri's then-reassurance that it was nothing serious.

The doctors kept her on fluids, then on intravenous nutrition. The last time Emil saw her alive, she had a mask pressed to her face as well. It didn't help. Weeks passed and Tuuri wasted away, her vitals shutting down one by one until not even the most advanced technology could keep her alive. She died in hospital without ever waking up.

That left only him, Reynir, and Mikkel. Three of them left: half the crew they had once been. Mikkel's hair was graying, Reynir's face starting to show its lines. They saw each other rarely, and Emil could only imagine what he must look like to them.

Mikkel's departure was the most uneventful of them all. Accidents happened on a farm, after all. He'd been getting older, his vision going along with his strength, and eventually, he made that one slip that proved to be fatal. Emil received a notification from one of his surviving siblings: curt, brief. It was as blunt as Mikkel would have been if he'd had to deliver the bad news himself. Emil's eyes stung as he tucked the letter away.

That left only him and Reynir, the two people who couldn't talk. Still, Emil traveled to Iceland—it was his turn, that time—and found Reynir waiting, as if they'd planned it, in their usual meeting spot. They shared a quiet meal, their only conversation in smiles and brief pantomimes. They parted ways with a handshake and a nod.

Emil had to read it in the papers to learn about Reynir, and even that not until several months after the fact. He'd been working on reinforcing a protective barrier along the coast. A leviathan had slipped through.

He'd opted to put a gun to his own head rather than wait for the infection to take hold.

Now, Emil was the last of them. The last of the first true Silent World explorers. He was long out of the field now, aging but healthy. When, he wondered, and how, would it happen for him?

As it turned out, it happened in bed.

Numbness all down one side of his body, weakness in his face… he didn't know what, but something was wrong. When he tried to call for help, all that came out of his mouth was a series of noises that sounded like a dog barking. Weak. No one would hear him.

The things he'd seen on their journey had convinced Emil of the existence of magic, but he wasn't so sure about the gods, or the afterlife. Whether he'd see the others again, or be plunged into eternal oblivion, was an open mystery.

'Guess I'll find out soon enough,' he thought as he took his last breath.


	44. Hate

**Prompt:** Hate

 **Characters:** Emil, Reynir, Kitty

 **Warnings:** ...I used Google Transgarble again. Bad me.

* * *

There was no way around it: they were mortal enemies now.

What had Emil been _thinking?_ He'd forcibly marched a lost, non-immune civilian back to the tank, this right before their team had been ordered to shelter him, then locked him in the bunk and refused to let him leave. What must Reynir _think_ of him now? That Emil was some sort of uncivilized brute, probably.

Why must his every first impression be ruined? Reynir must hate him now.

* * *

Reynir had no idea why, but he was pretty sure that the Swede must hate him.

Was it because he was eating all of their food? That was it, wasn't it? Emil had pushed and shoved him along and held him prisoner, right up until Mikkel had bailed him out, but in all honesty, Reynir couldn't blame him for being angry. He took up space, he took up food, he was completely useless. Really, he was surprised Emil hadn't done worse.

On the night that he brought back the cats, though, Reynir was forced to rethink his assessment.

He couldn't understand what the others were saying, but Tuuri whispered a translation for him as she listened with her ear pressed to the door. Emil had brought back a cat, a badly injured, feral cat, and five of her kittens, four of them already dead. Mikkel put down the mother while they listened. No translation was necessary for him to understand Emil's protest.

It wasn't until the cats were buried and the others back inside and cleaned up that Mikkel let them out of isolation. Tuuri immediately went back to her typewriter. Meanwhile, Emil…

In that moment, Reynir stopped wondering how much Emil must hate him. No one who tended a sick kitten that carefully could possibly be a bad person… right?

* * *

"Hæ."

Emil looked up, only to see the last person he'd have expected to approach him at this moment. Reynir was looking right at him, head cocked to the side like a curious dog.

"Look, I'm really sorry about earlier. But do you think you could let me feed this cat before you take revenge?" Then, however, he noticed that Reynir was staring at the kitten.

Reynir opened his mouth, and some Icelandic gibberish came out. He pointed at the kitten. Emil stepped aside.

Now fascinated, he watched as Reynir gently cleaned the kitten's nose, gestured for the tuna, and heated it gently over the portable stove. He offered her only the smallest portion, smearing a bit of tuna onto the tip of his finger before holding it under her nose, but then, miraculously, her little pink tongue lapped out, and she began to eat.

* * *

"Tack," Emil said, tired and slumped, as they got ready for bed. Everyone else was already asleep, but the kitten, perky and blue-eyed, was steadily consuming a can of tuna.

"Velkominn," Reynir replied. "I guess you don't hate me anymore, then?"

Emil's wave, yawn, and brief babble of Swedish was answer enough.


	45. Illusion

**Prompt:** Illusion

 **Characters:** Emil

* * *

When Emil had been a child, his aunt and uncle had taken him to a show to see a magician perform.

He remembered watching, open-mouthed and wide-eyed with delight, as the woman sorted a deck of cards by rank and suite without once looking at them, pulled colorful cloths out of people's ears, levitated one of the audience members, and ended her show by making a whole building disappear. Emil had grinned ear to ear and clapped with delight, and after the show was over had chattered nonstop all the way back to his aunt and uncle's house.

"Magic is amazing!" he'd burst out with at last as they'd walked through the door. "Hey, how do you think she does it?"

Aunt Siv had smiled indulgently at his innocent question, but Uncle Torbjörn had been the one to answer. "She wasn't really doing magic, Emil. It's sleight of hand, a trick to make you think you're seeing something that isn't actually there. Magic isn't real."

At the time, the only thing he could remember was being completely crushed. After the fact, though, he'd chided himself for believing something so ridiculous.

 _Of course_ magic didn't actually exist. If it had, maybe the Old World wouldn't have been overrun by the Rash. Maybe his family wouldn't have lost their fortune. The only way out, he'd long since realized, was through things that could be understood and quantified, and through understanding turned to one's favor: knowledge, science, money, influence. _These_ were his allies. Only children believed in magic.

When he first met the Finns, it was easy for Emil to feel bad for them: after all, they came from a backwater country with truly primitive levels of technology; they didn't even have _electricity_ over there, he'd heard. Indeed, Tuuri was in awe at the safety and modernity that was Swedish civilization, and Emil took pride in being the one to introduce her to their fine city. _She_ at least seemed smart and eager to see new things, in spite of all of her… _disadvantages_.

Emil still couldn't help but smile indulgently at her naiveté.

Somehow he'd thought that a certified mechanic who could speak three languages would have had a better grasp on reality in spite of her circumstances, but Tuuri actually seemed to _believe_ her cousin was a mage. Not that Emil could exactly blame her— _he'd_ once believed the magician's tricks, after all, until someone had explained to him how things worked. As for Lalli… well, it was impossible to tell _what_ Lalli believed, with his odd mannerisms and his inability to speak any language Emil could understand. Besides, Lalli had been hired on as a _scout_ , someone to find them a safe route and alert them to danger. Lalli's "magic" had nothing to do with it, and as long as their weird religious beliefs didn't interfere in their jobs, Emil didn't see any reason why he should be the one to set them straight.

Eventually, though, he could not help but wonder.

No sleight of hand could have told Lalli where the giant would come through the roof of the train. Still, there had to be _some_ rational explanation. He'd heard it, Emil had told himself. Somehow. Over the screeching metal, the bumpy ride, the shouting of the guards… but then again, Lalli's hearing _did_ seem to be a lot more sensitive than most people's. Same with the grossling in the vent. There was _absolutely no reason_ why his reaction couldn't have simply been due to him hearing the troll scratching around.

His long nap? He was exhausted! He'd been working all night! Maybe he'd had a head injury, or hadn't been eating enough, because it couldn't, just _couldn't_ , have been due to using too much magic and losing a part of his soul, as Tuuri had claimed when he'd eventually managed to corner her long enough to get some answers out of her.

Still…

It was easy enough to explain Reynir's panic as the normal reaction of a frightened civilian who'd been trapped in the Silent World, and Lalli's sudden screaming as being due to a nightmare. Sigrun's fainting spell could have been due to overwork, or to her injuries; Mikkel's to some underlying medical condition, something in the air or food. For all of these things to happen within seconds of each other, though? With no explanation that he could see? In all honesty, the only thing Emil truly understood anymore was that there were a lot of things in this world he _didn't_ understand.

Now, he could only hope that Tuuri and Lalli were right in their beliefs, because if things kept going the way that they were, there was no amount of reason, science, or bullets that was going to get them back home alive.


	46. Family

**Prompt:** Family

 **Characters:** Reynir's parents

 **Warnings:** Very, very brief talk of abortion

* * *

It wasn't a decision to be made lightly, no matter which option they chose. The promises of the flier had seemed like a godsend when they'd been seriously considering just letting the family end with them, but there were still risks and rewards and feelings to be weighed. They read every pamphlet they could get their hands on. They peppered the clinic staff with questions. There was no way they could truly know their choice, though, until they'd talked to each other.

"We want children."

"Yes."

"And they'd be _guaranteed_ immune."

"…would it bother you? Ending your line?"

"A little," she confessed. "But they'd still be _ours_ , even if not by blood." A pause. "Would it bother _you?_ "

He turned away. "Not at all."

The next time they went back, they said yes.

It was nothing like a normal conception. Instead of her and her husband, there were lots of doctors and instruments, brightly lit rooms and anesthetic. Even so, they were overjoyed when the test came back positive, and the doctors informed them they were lucky it took on the first try—not everyone's did. If it hadn't, she honestly didn't know whether she'd have been willing to go through it again.

The baby was born healthy, without complications. What few worries she'd had evaporated with his raising—when she'd carried, birthed, and nursed a baby herself, it was _hers_ , regardless of whose blood it carried.

When their first boy was weaned, they soon started to talk of having another child. The next time they went back, they asked for the same donors as before.

Slowly, one trip to the clinic at a time, their family grew. The children might not have looked like them but they clearly resembled each other, in everything from their thick black hair to their subtle mannerisms. They never kept secrets about where they'd come from; the children were _theirs_ , after all, and they knew they were loved. It might have been nice if they didn't all want to do things that were quite so _dangerous_ , but… at the very least, their parents still had the solace that they were immune.

It was possible that they got careless. After all, they were both getting older, and had begun counting on nature and the progress of time to do what they had once so vigilantly seen to themselves.

As it turned out, nature had other plans.

"Are you sure?"

"For the last time, yes! I've given birth to four children; I know when I'm pregnant."

"This… this is a disaster." He raked his fingers back through his hair. "This is _our_ child. It won't be immune. It might even be—" He stopped himself there, though, and she did not ask.

"What are we going to _do?_ " she said instead.

"I don't know." He sat down, hard, in the nearest available chair, his head in his hands. "We wanted to stop at four. We _agreed_ to."

"But we can afford another."

A few seconds passed before he spoke again. "Yes." Another pause. "You won't even consider it, will you?"

"How can I?" She pressed a hand to her stomach. "I'm carrying this child now. This is what I _want_." Tears stood in her eyes as she spoke.

The legs of the chair scraped against the floor as he stood with a sigh. "I suppose I should tell the kids they're going to have a new brother or sister."

"We won't treat him differently from any of the others."

"We must."

When little Reynir was born, they got him tested anyway—it was rare, but not unheard of, for two parents who weren't immune to produce a child who was—but in the end it was as they'd feared.


	47. Creation

**Prompt:** Creation

 **Characters:** Various prologue characters

 **Ship:** Hints of Signe/Michael

 **Warning:** This chapter contains a lot of speculation as to the reason behind the decline of Christianity in the post-apocalyptic world, which I understand might be a sensitive topic for some - especially since most of the explanations aren't particularly nice.

* * *

It was difficult, later, to say quite when things had changed.

It wasn't as if Christians (or, for that matter, Muslims and Jews) hadn't _survived_ the Rash, after all. Proportionally, there were as many crosses around immediately after the outbreak as there had been before. When the horrors began to emerge, though, the first word on everyone's lips was not "Rapture," it was "Ragnarok."

Maybe the Rapture had already happened, some said in those first hard years when it was all they could do just to scrape through the winter. After all, Sigrun pointed out as she and Aksel scrounged the region for edibles (an unlooted store or a stray deer, it didn't much matter at this point) with packs on their backs and rifles slung over their shoulders, there didn't seem to be any Christians left in Dalsnes. Maybe instead of succumbing to Rash like everyone had thought, they'd been spirited away to the eternal reward that god of theirs had promised.

"And good for them," she added, pausing a moment to scrutinize the ground for tracks. "Let 'em have their nice boring heaven. Our own gods will look out for us down here. Right?"

"R-right."

"Besides, who wants to be singing boring hymns all day when you could be drinking and feasting in Valhalla instead?"

Personally, after three years' worth of being constantly cold and hungry and terrified, Aksel thought that he would very much appreciate some nice boring hymns right now—but he kept that thought to himself. He supposed it was far too late now anyway.

The silver cross necklace he'd picked up, now without anyone to wear it, slipped from his fingers back into the mud.

* * *

"Maybe people lost faith," Aino mused as she sat nursing her baby, staring out the window of their boat. Saku said nothing. The wreckage they'd found earlier was still in both their minds, the ash-blackened ruins only identifiable by the soot-smeared Christ on the cross that had somehow been spared. "Our gods protected us and theirs didn't. Anyone would turn away."

"Maybe they're not the ones who turned."

She looked at him curiously but did not ask what he meant, knowing that if she waited, patiently, he would answer in his own time. He too was staring out over the waters of Saimaa, peaceful waters that hid lurking horrors, their only protection Vellamo's blessing on their small vessel.

"Maybe they decided they'd been subjugated for too long," he said at last. "Maybe they fought back."

"Our gods are not jealous," Aino reminded him, though she unconsciously wrapped her arms tighter around her baby girl.

"No. But theirs was. Sometimes I wonder…" He paused, and shook his head. "A human desperate to survive will do anything from commit murder to sacrifice a limb… what must a god be capable of?"

* * *

The noises coming out of the radio were… unearthly. Terrifying.

 _Demonic_.

You got used to it, they said, but Michael hadn't gotten used to it yet. Then again, he hadn't gotten used to waking up at the crack of dawn, shoveling manure, or shoving his arms elbow-deep into a cow's unmentionables either. He wasn't cut out for farm life—just as he wasn't cut out for the end of the world. The people who survived the apocalypse were supposed to be gritty badasses who were armed to the teeth—the fat businessman was always the first to die. Yet here he was, still alive, carting buckets of milk and even—heaven help him—trading the kind of looks with Signe that were supposed to be reserved for stoic muscular heroes and busty blondes, all while the world fell to horror around him.

Signe… not even Signe had been able to figure out what the Rash actually _was_ , never mind how many new weapons she had given them to fight it. It was a pathogen, one that spread through the air and through contact. There was no vaccine, no cure, and no hope for anyone who'd been infected.

"I'm at the end of my rope," Signe confessed to him one night, after she returned from the shed while Magnus twined purring in between her feet. "The scientists who studied it before couldn't even figure out its nature—didn't know whether it was a virus, a bacterium, a fungus, _anything_ —and I don't have half the equipment that they did. I'm starting to wonder whether it even came from this _world_."

A tingle ran up and down his spine at her words, and Michael had to fight to contain the sudden chill of horror that was pooling in the pit of his stomach. Somehow, he'd always managed to push it to the back of his mind, but now there was no more ignoring it.

He was _terrified_.

Maybe he shouldn't have complained so much about his boss. It wouldn't have hurt him to call his mother more often. He _definitely_ should have treated a lot of servicepeople better—people just like Signe, but who hadn't had Signe's spine to stand up to him. Whatever it was he'd done, though, he didn't think it was nearly bad enough to deserve a punishment like _this_.

For the second time in only a few months, Michael was faced with a paradigm shift. The way that he saw it, he could either believe nothing… or he could believe that he was in Hell.

Nothing was the far less scary of those options.

* * *

"Why is this happening?" Árni whispered to himself as he tried to sleep after his first day.

He'd never expected God to solve all of their problems. War, murder, poverty… _those_ were things humanity did to itself. It wasn't always justified, but… God had granted His creation free will, and Árni guessed there wouldn't be much point if He only took that will away every time someone misbehaved.

 _This_ , though?

If this was a test of faith, Árni thought, it was needlessly cruel—if God was as loving as he claimed to be, how could he have done this, or allowed it? If he were really all-powerful, wouldn't he have been able to stop it? If the god Árni had believed in and worshipped for so long actually existed, the implications of both of those possibilities made his stomach turn.

The next day, before the beginning of his shift, he went up on deck. After a quick look around to make sure no one was watching, he ripped the cross from his neck and threw it as far as he could into the ocean.

* * *

 **A/N:** The descriptions of farm life were brought to you by an anime I once watched known as _Silver Spoon_. I am given to understand that it is accurate.


	48. Childhood

**Prompt:** Childhood

 **Characters:** Sigrun

* * *

When they were children, they all played together.

Rough play was good training, and even if the occasional bone did get broken or knee skinned, well, better for them to toughen up now than lose hold of themselves out in the field. So it was that when they were young, the children of Dalsnes were mostly left unsupervised in their play. They honed their tracking skills by playing hide-and-seek. They built up endurance through tag. And hey, even if they did have the occasional conflict, a bit of mud wrestling never hurt for developing strength either.

It wasn't until they were nearing their teens that Sigrun began to notice that she and Halla were different.

Halla was forbidden to take even a single step beyond the town's safe borders, and if she ever got even a minor injury, her mother fussed over it for days. The one time Sigrun _did_ convince her to sneak off beyond the safe zone, Halla got shut up in quarantine for ten days straight. Sigrun would have felt bad for her—if she hadn't been distracted by the punishment her own parents had decided to dish out.

"What were you _thinking?_ " her mother demanded when she had finally finished laying out Sigrun's sentence: two months' worth of gruntwork with the skalds, ugh. "What if Halla had been hurt? What if she'd been _infected?_ "

"It wasn't like we were running around in troll nests," Sigrun protested. "And the quarantine is dumb. Halla isn't infect—"

" _You don't know that!_ " Never had Sigrun seen her mother so distressed. "You're the one who has immunity, so when she's with you, _you're_ the one who's responsible for her safety. And if you want to be a soldier someday, you had better learn how to _take_ responsibility."

As it turned out, Halla was not infected—but even after they let her out of quarantine, she was not allowed to play with Sigrun anymore. Though she tried anyway after the end of her sentence, attempting to catch her eye when they passed in the street and even sneaking out at night to tap on her window, Halla would not even look at her anymore. The last Sigrun heard of her, she had been apprenticed to a smith.

It wasn't just Halla, either: as they grew closer to adulthood their once inseparable group now seemed divided by an invisible line. Those on Sigrun's side continued with their rough play, only instead of silly games they were now learning how to use actual weapons. Those on the other side might stare longingly at the weapons, even pick one up once in a while, but in the end had to be content with applying themselves to whichever form of drudgery they had chosen to learn.

* * *

When Trond (who knew better than to put a piece of paper in front of her and expect her to read it, _especially_ if it was written in a language she didn't speak) informed her that one of the people on her new team was not immune, Sigrun raised an eyebrow in surprise.

"What, so she's not afraid she'll be eaten by a troll? Or that she'll turn into one?"

"No. As a matter of fact, she jumped at the opportunity."

Sigrun took a moment to consider that bit. All her life, it had been those with immunity who went out into the Silent World, to keep those without safe—that was just the way it was. That was the way it _should_ be. Come to think of it, she wasn't too keen on hauling someone around the Silent World while constantly having to protect her. And yet…

As it turned out, Tuuri was the one who ended up hauling _them_. No one else knew how to drive this bucket, after all. When it came to teamwork, Tuuri pulled her weight. Hel, even that civilian kid who'd replaced half their food with his own body turned out to be unexpectedly useful. If not for Freckles, they'd probably be dead—not even a day and he'd already repaid her for doing something she'd always been trained to think of as a sacrifice, a burden on her to protect those weaker than herself.

Maybe the kids had it right after all.

* * *

 **A/N:** This started from me wondering if, rather than having gender divisions, Y90 society is divided according to _immunity_. In fairly safe areas like Mora it wouldn't be all that noticeable, but somewhere like Dalsnes, where there's a lot of emphasis placed on combat abilities?

Also, fun bit of trivia: this was my original idea for "Fortitude" before the idea of Sigrun losing a leg jumped up to bite me in the rear.


	49. Stripes

**Prompt:** Stripes

 **Characters:** Emil, Sigrun

 **Continuity:** Same continuity as "Hold My Hand"

* * *

It wasn't until the next day that Emil dared to look.

The wound had hurt more and more with the passage of time, until the side of his face was one big throbbing red-hot pain. It wasn't the pain that worried him, though. It wasn't even the fact that he'd embarrassed himself.

They only had one mirror in the tank, a cracked grimy thing that they used for shaving. Emil stood in front of it now.

Mikkel had stitched and bandaged the wound before Emil had had a chance to see it, but he had seen how much it was bleeding, and that it had _needed_ stitching to begin with wasn't a good sign. Screwing up his courage, he reached up to his face and peeled off the bandages.

They stuck as he pulled, and Emil winced as he gave one last tug to remove them from his still-tender skin. Finally, though, they came away (bloodied, like his face), and Emil set the soiled dressings to the side before screwing up his courage and turning to look in the mirror.

It was even worse than he'd been afraid of. Instead of just one mark, like he'd thought, he had _three_ claw marks marring his face, deep parallel gashes that were only made all the more gnarly by Mikkel's poor stitching. He was going to have to wear this mark of shame for the rest of his life, right where everyone would be able to see…

He couldn't breathe. His chest constricted, his vision clouded at the edges, and it was all he could do just to stagger back to the bunk area and sink down onto his bed, hands shaking. Lalli's soft breathing emanated from the bed beneath him, and Emil held onto that—just breathe, focus on that sound. Just when he thought he was starting to get hold of himself, though, he would remember that his face was _ruined_ and start to freak out all over again.

" _Emil!_ " The door slammed open, and his captain's voice reverberated through the tank. From beneath him, he heard a rustle and a grumble of incomprehensible Finnish before all was still again. "Are you going to come out and eat, or what? We've got a long day ahead of us, you've gotta keep up your—"

She paused in the doorway. She raised an eyebrow. In turn, Emil could only look back up at her, still struggling to control his breathing.

Presently Sigrun let out a sigh and stepped into the room, gently setting down her gun and tossing off her jacket on the way. "You know, I never did get a chance to finish that story. I didn't even get to tell you the good part."

"What, the one about the three bear Beasts?" Emil shook his head and looked back down at his knees, dully wondering why she wanted to talk about this _now_. "Sorry, but I wasn't really paying attention."

"You didn't need to pay attention. I was talking about the _good_ part." It was such a strange statement even by Sigrun's standards that Emil roused his curiosity long enough to look up at her, if nothing else to ask what in the name of all that was holy was she even talking about. Grinning, she hooked her fingers under the collar of her turtleneck, and pulled it down.

Emil had been in the process of opening his mouth. He promptly snapped it shut again.

The marks—three of them, running in parallel—started on the outside of her neck, raking down across her collarbones before disappearing back under her shirt once more. They were old scars, pale with age—but they must have been wicked _nasty_ wounds when she'd first received them.

"See?" She lightly bumped his shoulder with her free hand. "We match."

In spite of himself, Emil found a smile creeping onto his face. Sigrun hadn't been lying, when she'd said she'd lived through worse.

"Do you know which warriors don't have any scars, Emil?" she asked as she released her hold on the shirt, allowing it to cover her once more. "The kind who don't live long enough to get them." She clapped him on the shoulder one last time as she stood. "Now let's go eat some sludge, and have Mikkel patch that up again while you're at it. Chop chop, we don't have all day."

Emil shook his head as he moved to do as she'd ordered. To be honest, he still wasn't sure he was okay with this, but… if Sigrun could wear her scars with pride, then maybe he could learn to do it too.

* * *

 **A/N:** This one was inspired by another Jureeya drawing. It can be found buried somewhere in the fan forum's art thread.


	50. Siblings

**Prompt:** Siblings

 **Characters:** Sigrun, The Generals Eide

* * *

The first time they talked about it, they didn't have any definite plans.

"Let's just start with the one," she said, "and go from there. After all, man plans—"

"—the gods laugh." He clapped her on the shoulder. "Don't I know it. Okay then. Just the one. We'll see what the gods give us from there."

It wasn't at all hard to get a leave. No better place to get the next generation of good soldiers than from the current generation of good soldiers, after all. Nine months later, they had a healthy baby girl—immune, like they were.

They didn't talk about trying for another at this time. Hard to think about bearing another when your body was still recovering from the last, and when you already had one baby to nurse and change.

* * *

Her first word, of course, was "Twoll!"

"Really?" She looked down at little Sigrun, who was toddling around the arena after the latest Initiation and at the fallen corpse, before turning a glare on her husband who was busy struggling not to laugh. "You couldn't say 'Mommy' or anything?"

"Twoll!" She pounded her fist against it with delight, until her father picked her up before she could create any more of a mess.

 _Don't think I could do another one right now_ , she thought as she rubbed her forehead. Even _thinking_ of the trouble they'd get into if she had another child like this was enough to make her hair go gray.

* * *

"Did you sneak out of school _again?_ " she demanded as Sigrun stood before her, shame-faced and guiltily shifting from foot to foot.

"School's _boring_ ," was the only mumbled excuse her daughter would give.

That night, she sat at the kitchen table with her face in her hands. Of course, she knew the real reason: Sigrun was struggling at school. Earlier that week, the teacher had informed them she could barely get through the alphabet when most of her classmates were already reading. Sigrun also had trouble focusing, he'd said, and was easily distracted. Though they'd never harbored fantasies of Sigrun being a great scholar, that she couldn't even seem to learn how to _read_ …

They had talked, tentatively, once Sigrun was in school, of the possibility of trying for another child. Now, though, she did not think they could afford the attention or care that a new baby would demand—not when they were so badly needed by the daughter they already had.

* * *

Children in Dalsnes got up to all sorts of mischief—letting them play rough taught them survival skills that they'd need in the future, if they chose to become soldiers. Even considering that, however, Sigrun seemed to get into far more than her fair share.

It seemed that not a week passed when one of them wasn't called away from work because their daughter had sustained a serious injury, or led someone _else_ to sustain a serious injury, or once (her heart had nearly stopped on the spot) even gone missing for the better part of a day.

"I hope you know this is _your_ fault," she told Sigrun one day as she stood in front of the mirror, holding up the strand of gray hair that she'd spotted just that morning.

"Huh?" Sigrun cocked her head. "I thought you were just getting old."

"Still want to try for another?" her husband asked later that night, only half-teasing as he leaned down to kiss her, but when he pulled away she could see the question in his eyes: they didn't have much time left. If they didn't make the decision soon, it was going to be made for them.

"I don't think it would be a good idea," she confessed. "Not when I'm under this much stress."

He nodded, resigned. "As long as you're okay with it."

* * *

The year Sigrun signed up for the military, her blood stopped.

It was early—earlier than she had expected, but then again, she had led a dangerous, stressful life. In the end, she supposed that this was simply her body's way of telling her that it already had as much as it could handle.

Eventually, she had chosen—a choice of inaction was still, after all, a choice. Had hers been the right one, she wondered? A decision without regrets was a hard one to come by indeed, but as she watched Sigrun celebrate her Initiation— _her_ daughter, whose options were limited, but who was still well-adjusted and happy with her life—this time, at least, she was convinced she had made the right one.

* * *

 **A/N:** Even the single brief interaction that Sigrun has had with her parents so far was enough to make me think 'Yep, I can see why she's an only child.'

I also headcanon Sigrun as having some form of ADHD.


	51. Sport

**Prompt:** Sport

 **Characters:** Sigrun

* * *

Sometimes, you just had to face it: winter in Dalsnes was really _boring_.

The trolls were all hibernating and those few soldiers still active were stuck on guard duty: a thankless task.

They found ways of coping.

The games were their only source of relief, and made winter go from I-would-happily-sacrifice-my-trigger-finger-for-a-good-fight down to somewhere around I've-had-slightly-more-excitement-in-my-sleep levels of boredom.

It wasn't _all_ bad, Sigrun supposed. For those who'd been lucky enough to get through the summer without major injuries, competing for time in scaling rugged walls or swimming through icy water was a good way for soldiers to keep in shape. For those who'd been lucky enough to recover from their major injuries, it was a good way to get _back_ into shape. Not to mention the friendly competition was a good way to build up camaraderie.

Still… it was nowhere near as good as the real thing.

" _Don't turn your nose up at playing_ ," her mother had said to her once, her first winter in the army. " _'Real thing' or not, the games teach you good skills. It might be you learn something here that will save your life out in the field._ "

At the age of thirteen, she'd brushed that off. Take the plunge into icy water and try to outswim everyone around her? _That_ was supposed to give her valuable experience? Maybe if she'd gone into the seafaring business—but she hadn't. No leviathons in Sigrun's career, thanks, no ships with sides to topple over or waves to sweep her off the deck. Sigrun did field work, where she kept her feet firmly on dry ground.

"Of course," her mother went on, "if you don't think you'd be up to it…"

In the end, she competed, if nothing else to prove that it took more than a little bit of cold water to scare her. She was going to _win_ this, she thought—only to come out in dead last and unable to stop shivering.

The next year, Sigrun chose to swim again. It didn't matter to her whether or not she was ever going to need it, not anymore. She didn't care if she failed at pointless things like reading, but she wasn't about to fail at this—not when her soldier's honor was on the line. It didn't take long before she got used to the cold water—nor before she could outswim most of the other soldiers in Dalsnes.

 _Thanks Mom_ , she thought as she pulled herself shivering from the sjødraug's lair.

* * *

 **A/N:** I... really didn't know where I was going with this when I first started writing. By the time I did, it was kind of too late to flesh it out as much as I wanted to.


	52. Deep in Thought

**Prompt:** Deep in Thought

 **Characters:** Arni

* * *

The problem with herding sheep, Arni soon realized, was that you often ended up having far too much time to _think_.

It used to be he had never remembered his dreams. Ever since he'd taken that brief, horrible job with the coast guard, though, it was as if someone had flipped a switch in his head, and now the dreams wouldn't stop.

The nightmares were… understandable, he supposed. Not fun, but understandable. After all, he now had blood on his hands, and no amount of repentance or guilt was going to undo that.

Ironically enough, he was far more troubled by the _other_ dreams.

They weren't anything like the nightmares. As a matter of fact, they were beautiful: rolling green hills, sparkling waterfalls, endless shallow seas under tranquil starlight. Under all of that beauty, though, Arni could not quite suppress the sense of something far more sinister.

The dreams felt more real to him than reality, a fact he couldn't help but dwell on during those long hours outside with nobody to talk to but the sheep and the dogs. No matter how beautiful a dream was, he thought, when you weren't even sure what _was_ real anymore, there was nothing you wanted more than to face the ugly reality and stay awake.

Now, he was all too aware of the ugly reality lurking just beneath the surface.

Monsters swam in those seas, he knew—don't ask him _how_ he knew, but he did. Like he knew that even as he took his flock out to pasture, the outside world was falling to pieces around him. _This_ —Iceland—was the dream from which they'd all eventually have to wake up.

 _Not any sooner than I can help it_ , he thought. _I did my part, and it was far worse than doing nothing at all. Is it so bad, then, to want my children to sleep soundly even though I can't?_


	53. Keeping a Secret

**Prompt:** Keeping a Secret (plus yet another Jureeya drawing, surprise surprise)

 **Characters:** Reynir, Emil

 **Warning:** Lotsa character death in this one, plus some gore/injury, blood, and infection. Oh yes, and there's always the Obligatory Google Transgarble Warning. ...could someone who knows what they're doing please check my Swedish?

* * *

Staggering back to the tank seemed like one long nightmare.

He was taking more of Emil's weight than Emil was, but then again Emil was in no shape to walk on his own. Reynir might have looked scrawny but he was strong; on more than one occasion he'd hefted an injured sheep over his shoulders and carried it the full hour's walk from the pasture back home. He could do this.

Now, his world was Emil's ragged breathing (how could a hunting trip have gone so wrong?), the burning in his arms and legs (Sigrun unmoving, glassy-eyed, staring up at the sky where she had fallen), the wheezes his mask produced every time he grunted in exertion (Mikkel's frantically struggling legs suddenly not kicking anymore), and stains of hot blood on his clothing (Lalli, gone for days, absent from the Dream World no matter how frantically Reynir called).

The tank was dark and silent; even the cat darted to the nearest dark corner as soon as Reynir opened the door. They should have known they'd never be able to make it back without the driver. Stuck in the middle of the Silent World with a tank that none of the survivors had the first clue how to drive: first no driver, then no scout, no captain, no _medic_ …

Emil collapsed into a chair as soon as Reynir got him back inside. Reynir let him; there was blood soaking all through his uniform and what if he was bleeding to death, there'd be nothing he could—

Calm down. Focus. Take a deep breath. Could he remember where Mikkel had kept his kit? Yes—it was up on that shelf. Gently, he slid it down, opened it. Yes, all of the basics were still in here: antiseptic, needles, suturing thread, bandages…

"Emil." Emil's eyes had slid closed, but they cracked open again at the sound of his name. Reynir held up the bag.

The injuries might not have killed him, but they were severe: he'd been so clawed up that even after they got him out of his shirt, Reynir could barely see any skin that wasn't bloodied. He used up almost all that was left of the antiseptic just cleaning the wounds.

"I've never done this on a human before," he apologized as he threaded a needle—he knew Emil couldn't understand him, but then again neither could the sheep or dogs, and it had always seemed to help them to listen to his voice. "But it can't be that different."

The very worst injuries were a couple of long gashes that ran almost down the length of Emil's back. He had Emil sit backwards on one of the office chairs, and started with those.

Reynir worked in silence. He'd tried to talk, at first, but his own voice had come back at him flat and too loud in the tank that was far too quiet, so he'd stopped. His hands remained steady: he'd have thought that he'd be a shaking wreck at this point, but somehow, he seemed to have found some degree of inner calm, and his fingers did everything they were supposed to do, passing needle through flesh and knotting sutures with no jerks or mishaps.

The mask, he'd discarded a long time ago: it was a distraction; it got in the way.

As Reynir had worked, he'd noticed Emil trembling. At first, he thought it was pain. (They were out of painkillers; there was nothing he could do.) After a few minutes, though, he started to hear Emil's shuddering breaths, noticed the way Emil had buried his face in his arms as his shoulders shook uncontrollably.

"Sigrun," Emil whispered now. "Mikkel. _Lalli_ …"

Reynir found his own head jerking from side to side at the mention of those names, and just for a moment, he paused in his work to reach out and gently rest a hand against Emil's shoulder.

* * *

Once Emil's wounds had been fully stitched and bandaged, and Emil settled in his bunk, Reynir stepped outside to get cleaned up.

Emil's bloodied uniform went straight into the washbasin. Reynir's would have to as well; by the time that he'd finished, his clothes had been covered with nearly as much blood as Emil's. Before he stripped, however, he took a pause to examine the tear in his sleeve—and the matching one in the skin underneath.

It was laughable, really. The wound was minor, a scratch—something that could be fixed with a Band-Aid.

The second it had happened, he'd felt it: that one claw that had slipped past the others' defense. The injury itself might not have been serious, but it _had_ broken the skin. As far as the Rash was concerned, he was already dead.

He wasn't panicking, though, or crying, or curled up in a ball somewhere begging the gods to end it already. There was something to be said, he supposed, for knowing that the Silent World had already done its worst: his days were now numbered, better not waste them. Besides, Emil still needed his help.

Reynir stripped off his shirt and put on a Band-Aid before he got started with the laundry.

* * *

It was touch and go, those first days. Emil showed no signs of infection (not the kind that could mutate a human into a bloodthirsty monster; the ordinary kind, the kind that only got into your blood and left your body cooking itself from the inside out), but he was silent and listless, spending all of his time in his bunk, staring at the roof.

After what had happened last time, Reynir did not dare venture out to hunt again. Instead, he set snares, and gathered what edibles he could from within sight of the tank.

He didn't wear his mask.

Was this what it was like, he wondered, to be immune? To not have to be afraid all the time?

The spring breeze played around him as he skinned and cooked the squirrels and rabbits he'd caught, carrying with it the scent of new growth and black loam. It was beautiful, in its own way, the Silent World: beautiful, and sad. Here, without the interference of humanity, nature was free to run rampant in all her glory: but it was a hostile beauty, one that few humans would ever get to see.

When Reynir was done cooking, he took a bowl back into the tank and made Emil eat. Sometimes, he had to sit there for hours, but he didn't mind.

"You need to get some food in you if you want to heal," he cajoled, using his foot to nudge the bowl a little bit closer so that the enticing smell would drift up to Emil's nose. Emil stared dully at the stew for a few minutes, before rolling over to face the wall. Reynir frowned. "You _do_ want to get better, don't you?" He nudged the bowl again, and when that got no response, picked it up and lifted it so it was on the level with Emil's head.

"Jag är inte hungrig." Emil roused enough to push Reynir's hand and the bowl away, but his arm fell limp back onto the bed immediately after.

"You should eat," Reynir repeated. "You've still got a chance to get out of here, after all. Don't you have anyone waiting for you back home? Friends? Family?"

He'd known, of course, that Emil couldn't answer. Still, the silence that followed his question was like a punch to the gut.

"You _have_ to get back alive," he continued, more softly. "I know I'm never going to forgive myself for never getting to see my family again. Hey, tell you what. I'll write them and tell them about you. I think my parents have been pretty lonely after all of my brothers and sisters left home; maybe you could visit them sometime? I know it won't be your own family. And I know it won't be like they'd have me back." As he considered the possibility, his voice broke, and Emil turned to look at him in surprise. "But maybe… maybe you could both help each other somehow."

Eventually, Emil picked up the bowl and began to eat.

* * *

Reynir hadn't been making idle promises, when he'd said Emil should contact his family. Whenever he had some downtime, he sat in the office and worked on the letters he was penning to his parents and siblings.

It was harder than he expected; he didn't know what to say. Or rather, he had so _many_ things he wished he could say, and didn't have the time or the ink to put them all down. _I'm so sorry_ , he wrote, over and over on every piece of paper. _I'm sorry, you were right, I should have stayed home, I love you, forgive me._

There was one thing, however, that he made sure to add to every letter:

 _Oh, and my friend, Emil. He almost got himself killed trying to save me, but I think he's all alone, so I told him he could come around sometime. I don't know if he will, but if he does… please welcome him._

* * *

As Emil got better, Reynir started to notice the first symptoms.

When he made Emil get up and walk around a bit, he noticed a persistent itch on the side of his face. He did not reach to scratch it, though: he already knew what it was, and he did not want Emil to know just yet. Right now, Emil still needed him.

Once he was alone again, he took a moment to look in the mirror. Not long; after he'd found what he sought, he didn't want to look anymore. _So I guess that it's starting_ , he thought as he put the mirror away.

He noticed another itch on the back of his hand as he prepared the graves. Not _real_ graves—going back for the bodies would have been far too dangerous. Still, he found what he could of their belongings, and used his pocketknife to carve their names on two convenient pieces of wood. Sigrun Eide. Mikkel Madsen.

The third one… now _that_ was a real grave.

The meadow where he'd dug it was beautiful and serene, the flowers just beginning to bud out now that it was spring. As far as final resting places went, he supposed, he could do far worse.

* * *

Only Tuuri and Mikkel had known how to use the radio—the last time Reynir had tried it, he had attempted to adjust it and gotten nothing but black noise. After many nights of restless sleep, however, he finally managed to contact Onni in the dream plane.

It was the first time they'd seen each other since before what had happened to Tuuri. Now, even here without his physical body, he'd visibly lost weight, and his eyes were rimmed with red. When Reynir walked into his haven, he didn't even stir.

"Finally come to finish the job, have you?" he asked, eyes closed, at the sound of Reynir's footfalls. "Well get it over with al—"

"Um, it's me."

Onni cracked his eyes a bit, stared at Reynir without seeing him for a few seconds before recognition dawned. "Oh." He didn't say anything more.

"There was another troll attack," he said into the silence. "Most of the others are gone."

Onni didn't respond. He only buried his face in his hands.

"I've figured out where we are," Reynir added. "If I tell you, do you think you could arrange for a rescue?"

"I'll do what I can." The statement was dull, emotionless, but somehow Reynir knew that he meant it. "How many people need to be picked up?"

Reynir took a deep breath. "One. Just one."

* * *

By the end of the second week, the itch on his hand had spread all the way up his arm, and there was an entirely new itch on the back of his neck.

Still, he didn't let Emil see. He wore gloves, and was careful not to roll up his sleeves unless he was sure he was alone. He let his hair hang down low over the back of his neck.

His face, he left alone. Unless you were actually looking for it, the spreading rash barely stood out from the rest of the freckles.

Kitty had begun to hide whenever he walked into a room. Once, she had even hissed at him, her fur standing on end and her tail puffed up until it was almost as big as her body.

* * *

"Okay." He'd had Emil sit down in the same chair, shirt off to once again reveal the claw marks that covered his body. He'd have scars—ugly ones—but he was on the mend.

Reynir had had to remove his gloves for the delicate work of taking the sutures out, but Emil had his back turned and his eyes closed. He was not going to see.

"I know, it's not fun," he soothed as Emil gritted his teeth, breath coming in short even though he was pulling the threads free as gently as he could. "But it's better than dying, right?"

What was he _saying?_

It must have been the fever; he'd woken that morning feeling too hot yet too cold, his legs sluggish and heavy as he'd dragged himself out of bed. Soon there'd be no more hiding it. Even so, however, his hands remained steady.

"There." At long last, he patted Emil on the shoulder after taking the last of the stitches out of his side. He was swaying on his feet. "All done."

For a moment, Emil didn't move. Then, however, his arm lifted, and his fingers ghosted gently over the torn healing skin. A shudder went through his body. Then, however, he lowered the hand with a shake of the head. "Tack." He was actually looking at Reynir now, looking for the first time in days, and there was a frown on his face. "Reynir? Är du sjuk?"

Reynir couldn't answer. His vision was swimming. Emil's eyes widened as they settled on his face.

* * *

He led Emil out to the graves behind the tank.

Emil spend a few minutes staring at the two Reynir had prepared (Sigrun Eide and Mikkel Madsen—Lalli and Tuuri they'd already done together, as a team) before his eyes drifted slowly to the third.

The hole in the ground.

As Reynir looked at it now he suddenly felt something fighting to claw its way out of him, but it wasn't panic or even infection. His chest constricted, his eyes burned, and before he knew what he was doing he'd spun around and thrown his arms around Emil's shoulders.

These past weeks, he'd managed to keep his mind elsewhere by keeping busy and doing what needed to be done, but now, there was no longer anything standing between him and his grave. He was sick. If left alone, he would either die horribly, or go on to a fate that was far worse than death. The "cure" that they'd sought had been a failure, and wouldn't produce anything with even the slightest chance at working for at least several years, never mind the next few weeks. Whatever he did, Reynir was done for: better to go now, by his own choice and at the hands of a friend. In the end, though, even that didn't change anything:

He didn't want to die.

He was only twenty. He'd never been off the farm in his life. He'd only just discovered that he was a mage. Maybe he could have gone to school, learned to use his powers as he was meant to instead of constantly stumbling around in the dark. He'd wanted to see a bit of the world—maybe not _this_ bit, but something other than the Iceland that he was used to. Fall in love, get married, maybe even start a family—things he wasn't even sure he wanted yet, but now he'd never know.

"Det är inte rättvist." Emil was rubbing his back now, saying something in Swedish. Eventually, however, they had to pull apart.

There was no more reason to put it off. He'd set his affairs in order: Emil had all of the letters he'd written, and the addresses to send them to. He was getting sicker by the minute, and didn't know how much longer his mind would be his own. As if reading his mind, Emil hefted the rifle. "Färdig?"

There was no need to ask what he meant. Reynir nodded.

The last thing he saw was the tears gathering in Emil's eyes as he pulled the trigger.


	54. Tower

**Prompt:** Tower

 **Characters:** Sigrun, Reynir

Google Transgarble apparently hates Icelandic. So... help?

* * *

"Sooooooooooo. Explain this to me again."

"W-well…" Tuuri looked from Sigrun, staring upwards with an eyebrow cocked and her hands on her hips, back up to the tower window and the two arms that were waving frantically out of it, and nervously adjusted her mask. Emil, behind her, who seemed to be favoring the if-I-can't-see-it-it-doesn't-exist route with regards to magic, stood behind them with his arms crossed and determinedly looking anywhere but forward.

"Help!" A frantic cry came down to them from one of the windows.

"Oh yes, and tell him to shut up before he attracts every troll in the city."

"We're working on it!" Tuuri called back in Icelandic before returning her attention to Sigrun. "Reynir had a bit of… a bit of an accident with his magic…"

"I can see that. What I'm asking is why you're down here and he's up there."

"Oh, that." Tuuri tapped her chin with a bit of a guilty laugh. "Well, when the stairs started collapsing I was already on my way down but he was still up there, and he couldn't get to them in time…"

"Yeah yeah, I get the picture." Tuuri breathed a secret sigh of relief when she didn't press for further details. "So there's no way Freckles can get back down from the inside."

"Not that I know of…"

"Forbannet islending. Emil! We got any rope handy?"

"Ummmmmmmm…"

"That's what I was afraid of." Approaching the tower, Sigrun tested out the nearest window ledge, experimentally digging her boot into a decayed pocket in the outer wall. It held her weight, but if she slipped up or hit a single weak spot the result would not be pretty.

Something long and very, very red dropped down beside her.

Sigrun wasted a few seconds of her life just staring at the thing in a state of extreme incredulity. Then, she turned to look back up at the window where the gods-cursed civilian was leaning out, dangling down his magically-lengthened red braid like it was some kind of gift, all the while grinning like an idiot and babbling away in that incomprehensible language of his.

"He says—" Tuuri was laughing so hard she could barely speak; even Emil was watching now, with the air of someone seeing an oncoming train wreck who doesn't _want_ to know how it's going to end, but still can't bring himself to look away. "He says you can use his hair instead of a rope."

Again, she looked at the impossibly long braid. Again, she looked at Reynir leaning out of the window. Reynir grinned and waved.

She gave up. This level of weird was simply beyond her ability to process.

"Tell him to tie it onto something," she told Tuuri instead, "so I don't end up breaking his neck."

Climbing up by human hair was… interesting. Not an experience she'd care to repeat. It was too thick and slippery in her gloves, hard to get a decent grip. Though Reynir had done as she'd instructed and wrapped the base of his hair several times around a protruding hook, he still winced with pain every time Sigrun inadvertently tugged, fingers digging into either side of his scalp.

They both gave a sigh of relief when she reached the window, and Reynir reached out a hand to help her through. After taking a few seconds to get her bearings (unfortunately Tuuri was right; there was half a floor left on one side and a big gaping hole on the other; now way they were getting back down from the inside), she whipped around and grabbed the braid once more.

"H-hey! Hvað ertu að—"

He fell silent, mouth hanging open, as the knife sliced through the thick braided hair. Sigrun held it up by its base.

"This time," she said, "we're climbing down the _normal_ way."


	55. Waiting

**Prompt:** Waiting

 **Characters:** Tuuri

* * *

It wasn't fair.

All Lalli had to do was go through decon, and he was free to go. He hated it, sure, but what did _he_ have to complain about? _He_ wasn't the one who was getting stuck in quarantine for two weeks straight.

Tuuri sighed, and tugged at the stiff white clothes they'd given her to wear. She had a book (not one of the ones they'd salvaged; no, _those_ had been snapped up right away and put in a safe place), but she'd already read it cover to cover at least five times, and she didn't have anything else to read or any writing materials or any machines to tinker with or… well, _anything_.

She had talked to Onni a few times. …lots of times. He wasn't very good at hiding the fact that he'd been crying, either.

"I'm _pretty_ sure I'm not infected," she'd told him, every time. "I wore my mask, I'll be fine!"

Occasionally, one of the others would stop by as well—Emil was pretty good about stopping for a chat, and Sigrun… well, it wasn't always a _conversation_ exactly, but listening to Sigrun talk was still far better than listening to nothing. Someone representing the Nordic Council had even come by a few times to ask questions about her notes. So at least the isolation wasn't bad enough to make her go out of her mind… just bad enough to give her plenty of time to think about things she'd rather not think about quite yet.

What was she going to do now?

The adventure was over. She learned so much and seen so many new things; how could her next job, no matter how lucrative or prestigious, compare? Come to think of it, she didn't even know what she _wanted_ to do for her next job. Go back to Finland? Spend the rest of her life imprisoned behind military walls, copying out other people's reports and repairing other people's machines? If Onni had his way she'd never leave Keuruu again… but Onni didn't have to have his way.

You couldn't get much more adventurous than the Silent World, of course, but there was still plenty of the Known World left to explore. That military base at Øresund had been a floating wonder; she was still itching to know more about how it operated. She'd barely gotten to see _any_ of Mora, with its moving walkways and electricity that never went out.

Come to think of it, they'd have to cross the exclusion zones again to get back home, and she knew Onni would be none too eager to do that.

Tuuri grinned a bit as she felt the beginnings of a plan take seed in her mind. Maybe she could talk her brother into staying just a little bit longer.


	56. Murder

**Prompt:** Murder

 **Characters:** The previous (and current) occupants of Spot 24

 **Warnings:** *points to prompt* Euthanasia with dubious consent, suicide

* * *

Eventually, they had no choice but to start shooting the patients.

First of all, there was the hard fact that they could no longer _feed_ everyone. Civilization was collapsing—had already collapsed. Even if they could have gone out, they'd already looted every store within walking distance. It was either this or let them starve to death.

…or, far worse, allow them _not_ to die.

At first they'd been restrained, strapped down, and kept in a separate ward. They'd kept the door locked.

That didn't stop the patients who still only had Rash from asking questions.

" _They're dead, aren't they? Why can't we_ _see_ _them if there's nothing wrong? Something horrible happened to them and you're hiding it!_ "

The worst part was, the most paranoid raving was also the closest to the truth.

They _had_ to hold out while there was some hope of a cure—they'd sworn an oath; it was the only ethical thing to do. They'd never murdered people with cancer, after all. They'd only…

…only made the inevitable death easier. Sometimes, with consent, they'd even spurred it on.

Frequently, the patients—the isolated ones—attacked the doctors. Eventually, one of them had to shoot in self-defense.

He escaped with his life, but soon ended up on the ward himself, and spent the rest of his days wailing that this was his divine punishment for taking a life he had sworn to protect.

As for the man he'd killed? He'd barely even qualified as a man anymore, but he'd still died screaming.

Before long, there was only one doctor left. After he'd put the last surviving patients (as well as a few creatures that were patients no longer) out of their misery, he turned the last bullet on himself.


	57. Sacrifice

**Prompt:** Sacrifice

 **Characters:** Sigrun, Reynir

* * *

Troll bait was still watching her.

Oh, he was _trying_ not to stare openly. Operative word there being "trying". Sigrun, in her turn, was pretending not to notice him—but there's not a whole lot else to look at when you're getting stitches taken out, _especially_ not when there's a lanky Icelander constantly walking past you with the laundry and shooting furtive glances your way every time in a way that screams 'Look at me! Look at me!'

Finally, she'd had enough. "Reynir." Raising her free hand, she crooked a finger at him.

The kid started, swallowed, looked guilty, and dropped the laundry on the ground before hurrying over. Mikkel gave an exasperated sigh but didn't speak.

"Okay Mikkel. Ask him why he keeps looking at me like I've grown a second head."

He rolled his eyes (okay, so she wasn't actually _looking_ at him, but she'd bet that he was) and spoke to Reynir. Even in Icelandic his sarcasm was plain. After a bit of hesitation, the kid jabbered back.

"He would like to know," Mikkel said after a few minutes of this, "why it was that you did this for him."

"…you did tell him the obvious, right?" Sigrun was immune; Reynir wasn't. She was a soldier; he was a civilian. That was the way it _worked_.

"I did point out that while you were injured, your injuries were _treatable_ —which is more than I could have said for Reynir, had he been bitten. His response…" Mikkel hesitated here, pausing to clean his tweezers before getting back to work. "Well, he did bring up the fact that he's more expendable than you are, and that he's been eating quite a bit of our food." Another pause. "He also hasn't missed it that you don't particularly like him."

"What does that have to do with anything?" Sigrun threw her free arm into the air. "What, he thinks I'm okay with letting civilians _die_ because I have some kind of grudge?"

"Please stay still," Mikkel murmured, shifting his grip on her arm.

"Listen, Mikkel. You tell him that we're not just in it for killing trolls. Sheesh, doesn't Iceland even _have_ a military? What does he think the military is _for_ , anyway?"

Mikkel took _quite_ a bit longer to translate this than she thought that it warranted. As a matter of fact, by the time he had finished speaking to Freckles he had also finished with her arm. She was about to get up when she was barreled into by a whole armful's worth of jabbering Icelander.

"Yeah, yeah." Sigrun even patted him on the back a couple of times before pushing him away. "Maybe save the undying gratitude for a time when you can make yourself useful?" She stretched, enjoying the sensation of having her arm free of its sling, and didn't stick around to hear Mikkel's translation or the response that Reynir gave.

* * *

 **A/N:** For some reason I really enjoy writing interactions between these two. Probably because we haven't seen them interact all that much in-comic.


	58. Kick in the Head

**Prompt:** Kick in the Head

 **Characters:** Emil

 **Warnings:** Bullying

* * *

 _This_ time, it would be better, he'd thought. _This_ time, he would prove himself, and show all of the people who'd laughed at him what he was worth.

 _This_ time, he hadn't been counting on how bad things could actually get.

When Emil had returned from his mission to the Silent World, he'd thought he would be greeted as a hero. After all, he'd walked into the unknown and survived—he even had the scars to prove it (even if he was inclined to take Sigrun's advice about showing them off with several very large grains of salt.) He might not have expected to instantly make friends (if there was one thing that he'd learned out there other than how to face a giant and not die, it was that relationships took work and patience), but he at least thought that he'd have earned a little bit of respect.

As it turned out, this time he'd been sorely mistaken.

Instead of a hero of the Silent World (as some of the press had taken to calling them), he was received back into the Cleansers as the same rookie he'd been when he'd left.

"I suppose you think," Captain Nilsson told him on his first day back, after calling him to her office before he'd even had a chance to unpack, "that because you're some sort of… _celebrity_ now, that you'll be a favorite here as well. Is that right?"

"No ma'am." Even as he spoke, Emil felt his cheeks burn.

"Good. Because no matter what the newspapers say, here you'll have to earn your place just like any other soldier. Dismissed!" Emil was gritting his teeth as he returned to the barracks.

The treatment from his fellow soldiers was far, far worse.

He'd never had many friends among them to begin with, but he didn't think it was his imagination that their treatment seemed far more vicious. Before, he'd been a rich brat, an idiot who didn't know how to do anything. Now, he was a show-off, a glory hound who'd tried to worm his way into his commanding officers' good graces by taking cheap shortcuts. Before, they'd been content to laugh at him when he was assigned extra pushups or when he dragged himself into the mess hall, dirty and gasping for breath, after basic, and they'd stuck to verbal jabs.

Now, he awoke mornings with his bootlaces tied together (and was made to scrub the toilets as punishment for his supposed slovenliness). He returned to the barracks in the evenings to find his bedsheets wet and spent the entire night shivering. There were holes in his gloves that hadn't been there before, and he couldn't seem to get from one end of the mess hall to the other without tripping over at least one foot that was conveniently stuck right into his path.

 _It's harmless_ , he thought. _It's just stupid words, stupid pranks. I can ignore it. They'll get bored eventually. All I need to do is pretend it doesn't bother me and they'll stop._

"What's the matter, Västerström? Think you're too good for us?" Anders yelled as Emil once again walked to the farthest corner of the mess hall to eat his dinner alone.

It didn't stop. It got worse.

Anders now made a point of shoving into him every time they passed each other. Once he even tried to trip Emil down a flight of stairs, and he only just managed to catch the railing in time to keep himself from taking a nasty spill. He still tried not to take it too seriously, however, until the morning his gun exploded in his face.

He was sure he heard Anders's laughter as he blacked out.

* * *

Emil awoke in the hospital. Concussion, they said. He'd was lucky he still had a face, let alone managed to keep his hearing and eyesight.

It was deemed an accident. Captain Nilsson even showed up personally to chew him out for not taking proper care of his gun—and the worst part was, he could think of no way to prove the sabotage.

One morning, he awoke to find someone else he recognized sitting by his bedside, restlessly tapping an envelope against her thigh.

"S-Sigrun?" Was he hallucinating? He _had_ taken a pretty hard knock.

"One question." She wasn't looking at him, but her jaw was clenched and the fingers of her free hand opening and closing spasmodically, as if itching to close around something's—or some _one's_ —throat. "Is there anyone I should be punching for this?"

"No." Even if letting Sigrun loose on the Swedish military wouldn't make his problems worse in the long run, the very thought of retaliating made him sick. "It was a stupid accident. I'm fine."

In response, she only snorted, waving a hand in dismissal. "Emil, I've seen you handle a gun. You wouldn't make a rookie mistake that would make it blow up in your face." She said no more about punching anyone, though, for which he was grateful.

"What are you doing in Sweden?" he asked at last.

"My unit came over to help with some of the Cleansing work. Thought I'd deliver the good news in person." She held up the envelope. "We've got funding for another mission this winter. You in?"

He stared at the envelope. Another winter with the old team: people who liked him, who talked to him, who called him not "dumb rookie" or "stuck-up show-off," but "right-hand warrior," "teammate," " _friend_ "…

…only to have to come back here after and take more of the same old abuse…

Sigrun saw his hesitation. "I've also asked Trond to pull a few strings," she said. "Got you a job in Dalsnes, if you want to take it. At least over there we know a good warrior when we see one."

"I'll think about it," he promised after a few minutes of pondering—and he would. Even knowing he had an out was enough to make him relax, breathe. "As for this winter… definitely."


	59. No Way Out

**Prompt:** No Way Out

 **Characters:** General Eide (M), Sigrun

 **Warnings:** Blood, severe injury, major character near-death. This is very much an Adult Fear themed chapter.

 **Soundtrack:** If I know of a song with the same name as the prompt, _of course_ I'm going to use the song as inspiration. "No Way Out" by Peter Gabriel.

* * *

The attack had come out of nowhere.

Sometimes, a few trolls or beasts broke through the defenses, no matter how good—but then again, that was what the military was _for_.

Three units responded almost as soon as the alarm was raised. By the time General Eide made his way onto the field, the three bear beasts that had breached their border had already been neutralized.

"Casualties?" he asked, as soon as Major Bjornson had finished saluting.

"No civilians, three soldiers." He nodded, indicating that she should continue. "Lieutenant Elvestad broke her leg. Private Trondheim lost an eye, but he'll live. And…"

The sudden hesitation in her formerly dry report was enough to make his heart stop. No. No no no. Not—

" _Medic!_ We need another medic over here!"

There was a crowd of people already gathering: in a circle, standing back. General Eide was barely aware of his own voice dismissing the Major before hurrying over as fast as his legs would carry him. They parted without a word to let him through.

She'd gone from pale to sheet-white, her face drawn with pain, a dark red stain blooming over the front of her uniform. Her breath was shallow, her eyes glazed over, and when he took her hand in his, her fingers were cold to the touch.

"Sigrun," he whispered; she was still conscious, but only just. "Breathe. Just breathe."

The medics hadn't paid him any mind; as long as he wasn't getting in their way, he was allowed to stay. They'd peeled away her shirt, revealing a series of ugly parallel gashes that had cut her down to the bone. When one of the medics dusted her wounds with something to slow the bleeding, she hissed in pain, her fingers tightening around his, but did not scream or cry out.

 _Good girl. You're doing great. Hold on. Breathe._

Her violet eyes were cracked open now, fixed on him. "Dad," she croaked out. "Don't see… any Valkyries yet."

"Good." He brushed her hair back from her forehead. "Hold on, okay?"

His daughter's pulse beat strong against his fingertips as he held her hand in his.

* * *

Hours later, they sat waiting outside of the infirmary. His wife, who'd run all the way from her post halfway across the village, leaned against his shoulder; he kept his arm wrapped supportively around her waist.

Sigrun's wounds were very serious, the doctors had said, and she'd lost a lot of blood. That she'd stayed conscious, and not gone into shock, was a good sign, but… there was always a chance.

When the doctor came out at last, his uniform covered with blood, and told them their daughter would live, they both nearly collapsed in relief. When they were allowed to see her (for a few minutes only; she needed her rest), she was unconscious: pale-skinned, covered with bandages, IV lines running into her arms, but she would recover, and live to fight another day, and they thanked the gods for that.

They each took a turn to kiss Sigrun's forehead one last time before the doctors made them leave.

* * *

 **A/N:** The first time I heard this song, for some reason I thought it was about the narrator coming across an ex who was hurt and realizing he still loved her. The more times I listen to it, though, the more convinced I am that it's about a father and daughter. Reading it as a narrative of a parent seeing his child badly hurt and slipping away from him just makes it all the more heart-wrenching. At any rate, positive father-daughter relationships are a thing I simply Do Not Do under most circumstances, but nevertheless I'm glad I found some characters who could act out this story.


	60. Rejection

**Prompt:** Rejection

 **Characters:** Emil

* * *

He was never going to graduate.

Sitting inside the school building long after everyone else had run off to celebrate the end of the semester, Emil stared at the piece of paper in front of him, and despaired.

 _How_ was he going to tell his parents?

It _wasn't his fault!_ The teachers had hated him from Day One—there was no way, _no way_ , that he could do so well under his private tutors if he didn't have what it took to succeed as an academic, right? Were they jealous of his fortune (which no longer existed)? Of his family name (which was now ruined for good)? Or did they just not like him personally? Either way, that didn't change the end result: he could see his dreams slipping away before his eyes.

His parents… they would never hear of him being anything other than a shining success. He'd once overheard his father yelling at a tutor for giving him a bad mark; the man was gone the next day. Except they no longer had any power over his teachers.

Emil wandered the streets in a funk for the next several hours. He had nowhere to go, no friends to go there with, and no money to buy anything—not even a meal. He just didn't want to go home.

It was going to get dark soon. Even in the safe, civilized areas, nobody stayed out after dark unless they were military or had important business; it was simply the done thing, what was safe. Besides, Emil's stomach was rumbling, his extremities were getting cold (it had been a long time now since he'd had money for new gloves _or_ new boots), and he was just about ready to go home and face the music when something caught his eye.

A light at the end of the tunnel—no, a _flame_. He stepped up to the poster to get a better look. A recruiting poster—join the Cleansers. Men and women in uniform, grinning easily with their arms wrapped around each other's shoulders. Behind them, golden flames bloomed, warding off the cold with the warmth of belonging.

The recruitment office was just getting ready to close when he stepped in, but Emil put his name down before he could change his mind. From then on, there was no going back—nor anything to stand in his way when he told his parents he was quitting academia to join the military.


	61. Dance

**Prompt:** Dance

 **Characters:** Emil, everyone else

* * *

For the first time since they'd first set out together, the crew had encountered a situation that was horribly, dreadfully insurmountable.

Reynir was standing off to the side, constantly wringing his hands and talking to no one—or maybe he was attempting to pray again. "Do I really have to do this?" he muttered over and over. "I'm just a stupid stowaway… no one will notice if I'm not there…" Lalli, meanwhile, had retreated into the nearest available corner and was steadfastly refusing to come out of it, no matter how persistently (and incomprehensibly) Emil cajoled.

"No," Sigrun said. One had to wonder how she had avoided wearing a hole into the floor with her constant restless, angry pacing. "Absolutely not."

"It's a requirement," Mikkel reminded her, arms crossed.

"Well it's a stupid one!" she snapped. "What sort of prissy country _does_ this, anyway?"

"Networking is important," he continued, unperturbed. "This could mean the difference between us getting funding for another mission and ending up on the streets."

"Speak for yourself. _Some_ of us have steady jobs outside of the Silent World. Besides, I'd like to see _you_ do this right!"

"It can't be _that_ hard, can it?" Tuuri at least seemed to be managing to keep her nerves under control; she was carefully fluffing her hair, which had acquired a few extra centimeters during their months in the Silent World, and determinedly disregarding Sigrun's muttering about "two left feet" and "clumsier than a drunk giant". Nobody mentioned that she'd been standing in front of that mirror for long enough to have individually placed each hair. "I mean, it's not like we didn't have any sort of social life over in Keuruu." Mikkel, who by this point was also ignoring Sigrun's tirade, turned to her with a raised eyebrow. "…okay, so we didn't have any sort of social life over in Keuruu." She buried her face in her hands, her carefully-arranged hair falling right back into its natural state. "This is going to be a total disaster."

"It's _not_ going to be a disaster." Emil, who finally seemed to have given up on Lalli, stood. He alone looked composed, his suit perfectly pressed (if a bit worn) and his hair so burnished that it sparkled every time it caught the light. "Seriously, what are you afraid of, anyway? It's only a dance."

The death glares he received from Sigrun and Tuuri, not to mention the hiss from Lalli's corner, made him immediately back off _that_ position, hands raised and palms spread outward in a gesture of supplication. "Okay, so it's not what you're used to! But we've survived burning buildings and troll nests and murderous ghosts and I-don't-even-know-what-those-giant-brain-things-were, and we did it by working together! We can get through this too… right?"

Mikkel only continued to stare. Sigrun turned away, pinching the bridge of her nose. Reynir whimpered.

"Okay, look, I'll help. There are _some_ advantages to being a rich brat." That at least got a smirk out of Sigrun, and everyone in the room seemed to relax by a hair. He began by stepping up to Tuuri, who seemed to be the most approachable (not to mention the closest to him in height) and holding out a hand. "May I have this dance?"

Tuuri gripped too hard. She left streaks of sweat on his palms and on his nice suit, and apologized with every misstep. Nevertheless, Emil found her a quick learner, and easy to teach. "You'll do fine," he reassured her after the rudimentary lesson was completed. "Just let your partner lead and I'm sure you'll figure it out."

There was a sigh of relief all around the room as he and Tuuri parted and the others realized that hey, this might not be so bad after all. At least, there was a sigh of relief from _almost_ everyone. Lalli was still hiding under the bed and would not be moved for anything, and Reynir was still standing beside the window chewing his nails from his fingers. Letting out a sigh of his own, Emil approached the Icelander, and held out his hand.

"Fyrirgefðu!"

"Reynir, take a step back." Emil laid a hand on Reynir's chest and pushed him until he did as asked, still stammering apologies—or at least, he _sounded_ apologetic. For all Emil knew, he could have been laying curses on the entire Västerström family. "You wouldn't keep stepping on my feet if you didn't keep trying to stand so close. Now _relax_ ," he continued as Mikkel translated. "You don't need to be joined to me at the hip to tell how I'm trying to lead you. And keep your arms _loose_." He gently swatted Reynir's locked elbow to make his point. "Now, let's try this again…"

Sigrun was a lot more confident and a lot less apologetic.

He wasn't sure whether this helped.

"No no no, _you_ have to let _me_ lead!" Hard enough to dance with a woman a good head taller than he was, not to mention his commanding officer, when they couldn't even agree on who got to lead.

"Why?"

"Because I know what I'm doing and you don't." He did _not_ think it would be wise to attempt to explain traditional gender roles to Sigrun, _especially_ in the context of appropriate society behavior. Instead, he crossed his arms and tilted his head back to look her in the eye.

"Okay, fair enough." She held out a hand; he took it. When he rested his free hand on her waist, though, he felt something _else_ that was going to be a problem.

"And you're not allowed to bring knives into the dance hall!"

For a few seconds, she only looked at him incredulously. "How did you people even _survive_ when the Rash came?"

"Mikkel… you… have… to… move… your… feet!"

"I am doing exactly as you instructed."

"Well do it faster! They're not going to be playing a funeral march in there." Emil attempted one more tug on his arm, but the big Dane was at least twice his weight and a solid block of muscle besides: impossible to move unless he _wanted_ to be moved.

Emil let out a sigh and stepped back, allowing Mikkel's hand to drop from his. He sneaked a glance over at the far side of the room, where Tuuri, Reynir, and Sigrun were taking it in turns to practice with each other: Sigrun gave Reynir a spin before pushing him over to Tuuri, who swept him into a dance without missing a beat. Lalli, meanwhile, was still hiding under the bed. "I'd think you of all people would realize how important this—"

He stopped, turning to face Mikkel again as something clicked in his brain. The medic was watching him with a faint smile, his arms crossed over his chest. "…you knew how to dance all along, didn't you?"

"Well, you did seem to enjoy being the knowledgeable one for once."

Emil found himself smiling in turn as he watched Reynir, now too dizzy to stand, slump against the wall, while Sigrun swept Tuuri into a slow waltz. "Yeah. I guess I did." He turned back to Mikkel. "You _will_ help me keep this lot in line, right?"

"Of course."

* * *

That night, standing off to the side, Emil watched the proceedings.

He'd done his part, he thought, giving a turn to all the well-placed people he could think of, dropping a compliment here and a subtle hint there. He thought he'd earned a break.

Currently, Tuuri was partnered with one of their potential backers, who'd bought a few of the books they'd come back with. The two of them seemed to be having a rather engaging conversation… or at least, _she_ seemed engaged. She was chattering on and on in her perfect Swedish about… engines. She was talking about engines.

No wonder the poor guy was answering her in nods and grunts and "Mm-hms," all the while looking desperately around for an excuse, any excuse, to get away. Well, at least she wasn't embarrassing anybody.

Reynir, meanwhile, was in the arms of a very buxom woman from the Nordic Council. Emil had met her, and he knew that they didn't have a word of any language in common. At least Reynir wasn't stepping on her feet. Mikkel, meanwhile, seemed to be smarming up to another potential backer—Emil left him to it.

Sigrun was easy to spot—even if her red hair hadn't stood out like a sore thumb among a crowd that consisted mostly of blondes and brunettes, her voice carried. "Yeah, thing leaped out of the snow at us and right at the civvie's face. Good thing I was there to save his butt. Got a pretty bad bite out it too, needed a few dozen stitches. Still have the scars from that one…" The poor woman she was holding captive was looking increasingly ill.

…okay, so it wasn't the best impression they could have made, but things also could have been far, far worse. There hadn't been any explosions or screams or random sprays of blood yet, and personally, he was willing to take that as a very good sign. As far as Emil was concerned, from now on, he was going to take what he could get.

"Hei."

Emil turned around. There, at his elbow, was a silent, skinny shadow: you wouldn't even notice him unless you were looking.

"You didn't have to come down if you didn't want to, Lalli. I already had Tuuri tell everyone you were ill." Lalli cocked his head but made no move to leave, instead looking out over the crowd with what Emil had by no learned to read as a mild curiosity.

"Though if you _want_ to stay down here, that's fine too." He was just wondering whether this would be sufficient excuse to go rescue the poor guy that Tuuri was holding captive so he could get a translation when his thought process was interrupted by a tap on his shoulder. He looked back at Lalli, who was still watching the proceedings with a questioning expression, which he then turned on Emil.

Emil grinned. He held out a hand. "I don't suppose," he said, "that you would care to dance?"


	62. Magic

**Prompt:** Magic

 **Characters:** Reynir, Onni

* * *

At first, he hadn't been able to sleep. Now, though, Reynir could barely wait to lay down his head at night.

"I thought you wanted to help with the dishes," Mikkel called as he scrambled into his bed after dinner.

"Thanks, but I'm good," Reynir called back, leaving the exasperated medic to clean up the remains of dinner by himself.

"Well, what do you say?" he asked as he appeared in the same beautiful landscape as always, giving the dog an affectionate pat on the head as it circled around him. "Safe to go out?"

The dog barked, and gave a brief wag of its tail. Reynir assumed that was a yes.

"You again?" Onni asked when Reynir called, waving from his place just outside of the border. "I thought I told you to contact your gods on your own."

"It's not that." Reynir fiddled nervously with his braid. Onni raised an eyebrow. "I was hoping… that is, do you think you could tell me more about spirits?"

He had to ask the questions. Onni was not accustomed to teaching, had never taken an apprentice in all his years as a mage, much less one from a different practice. Reynir kept coming back to him every night, though. He was all Reynir had.

As for Onni… well, the more knowledgeable the mages were who were accompanying his sister, the better chance they _all_ had of coming back alive. It was only common sense.

"What's _he_ doing here?" Lalli asked one day, upon finding Reynir comfortably chattering with Onni in his haven.

"What are _you_ doing out of your area?" Onni countered, standing up. Reynir backed away, his hands in the air.

"Did I do something wrong?" Reynir asked in confidence later, after the two cousins had worked out whatever it was that was going on between them.

"Lalli doesn't take well to invasions of his personal space," Onni answered brusquely. "And you're here so I can teach you about spirits. Work it out on your own."

Starting the next day, Reynir started leaving a cookie on Lalli's pillow every time he returned from scouting.

"So how did you first know you were a mage?" Reynir asked on a different occasion. He was starting to run out of questions to ask about spirits.

Onni looked at him. "I started an apprenticeship with my grandmother at the age of eight," he said at last. "She'd known I was magical since the day I was born."

"Oh." Reynir wrapped his arms around himself, staring down into the water. "I didn't even realize until a couple weeks ago. The day I ran into you and Lalli in that dream."

"I don't know what forms the blessings of your gods take," Onni replied at last, "so I'm not sure what's normal for you and your kind. I do know that _my_ gods don't bestow their gifts on mortals without a reason."

"Hope that mine are the same," Reynir whispered, looking down into the water and his distorted reflection.


	63. Do Not Disturb

**Prompt:** Do Not Disturb

 **Characters:** Lalli, Reynir

* * *

How was he supposed to keep the foreigner _out?_

Onni had said there was no way to do it. Then again, Onni couldn't take two steps outside the borders of Keuruu without breaking down crying. There had to be a way to do it. There _had_ to—because if there wasn't, Lalli was going to go completely out of his mind.

The thought that his borders could be breached in that way had been nagging at his mind ever since he'd first woken in _his_ place to see the stupid foreigner's face hovering above him, and he hadn't been able to truly relax since.

Of course, he'd at least learned his lesson after Lalli kicked him out the first time. He hadn't tried to breach Lalli's borders again. Instead, he just stood outside and yelled whenever he had a question—which was far too often, as far as Lalli was concerned.

"Hey, Lalli? I haven't been able to find Onni. Do you know where he went?"

…

"Okay then, I guess I'll just go look for him myself. Sorry I bothered you!"

"Hey Lalli, I found this spirit-thing wandering around in my area and I was wondering whether you knew what it was? No? Oh, that's okay anyway, thanks for your help!"

"Lalli Lalli LalliLalliLALLI! Ohgodsit'sgoingtoeatmeHELP!"

…okay, so that time Lalli _did_ let him in before leading the infected spirit to its final rest. He still kicked the annoying Icelander right back out after he was through with that.

"Thank you!" Reynir called even as Lalli pushed him back outside of the border.

There _had_ to be a way to do something about him.

That night, Lalli paced the boundaries of his haven. Step off the platform, over the edge of the pond onto solid ground, follow the stream to the night sky and endless shallow sea of the Dream Plane. Don't cross the boundary, turn back and pace some more.

This place was _his_. He didn't want Reynir or anyone else barging in—but he only seemed to get the message if he was hit in the face with something. If only he could…

Lalli paused. He allowed himself a small smile. Well, Onni didn't want him to step outside of his boundaries anyway. He was going to crash for a _very_ long time after this, but if what he had in mind worked, it would be well worth it.

* * *

"Lalli? Hey, Lalli! I was wondering…"

Reynir stopped as he came within sight. He stood where he was on the water, dog at his heels. He stared.

It was the right place—he was sure that it was Lalli's haven. Instead of the open marshlands that Reynir was used to seeing, though, the entire thing was surrounded by wood: thin gnarled branches had crept out of the ground all around Lalli's borders, twisting around each other until the entire place was completely enclosed. Reynir couldn't so much as peek through them, much less get in.

"Huh. I guess he wanted to be left alone?"


	64. Lovers

**Prompt:** Lovers

 **Characters:** Emil, Lalli, everyone else

 **Ship:** Emil/Lalli

* * *

They each found out in their own ways—and reacted in their own ways as well.

Mikkel, of course, was expecting it—had been expecting it for weeks now, to tell the truth. So when he went out back of the tank to empty the washbasin and caught Emil and Lalli sitting side by side on a nearby log, hands entangled in each other's hair and their faces mashed so close together they looked like they were trying to eat each other's tongues, his only comment was "Oh, good. A few more days and I would have had to tell you to get on with it already."

Emil broke away with a yelp, his face going bright red. Lalli didn't blush, but he did cross his arms defensively over his chest, turning away with a slump.

"Of course, we can't have anyone catching venereal diseases in the middle of the Silent World, so do let me know if you plan to take things further. I would be happy to provide you with adequate protection." He chanced another glance at Emil as he tipped the basin; the Swede looked mortified, his hands coming up to cover his face. "And if you would like to improve your kissing technique, I would be happy to give you tips on that as well. As a matter of fact, I highly recommend it before someone ends up with his tongue bitten off."

Mikkel allowed himself a small, private smile as he carried the washbasin back to the tank and Emil's groan of embarrassment sounded behind him.

* * *

Sigrun might not have foreseen it, but she couldn't exactly say she was surprised.

They were out in the field, in close quarters, with a gaggle of lonely, hormonal kids. Things happened. Wasn't the first time, wouldn't be the last. At least with these two she wouldn't have to worry about anybody getting pregnant on her watch.

"Unless there's something that one of you's been hiding from me, eh? …eh?" She nudged her elbow playfully into Emil's ribs.

"Sigruuuuuun," Emil groaned, burying his face in his hands.

"Fine, fine. I'll stop. And watch where you're going." She peeled his hands away from his face without missing a beat. "Seriously though, don't let it become a distraction. I've seen field romances where both parties were paying more attention to each other than to the trolls in front of their eyes, and… bam. Dead. Guts ripped right out. Don't want to see that happen to you too."

"…I'll keep it in mind." Emil was now looking distinctly green.

"There's my right-hand warrior." She took a moment to bump her fist against his shoulder as they continued with their trek.

* * *

Of course, most of the people on this team had considerably less field experience… or experience with life in general.

"What? What?" Sigrun leaped to her feet with her knife in hand as Reynir came barreling around the side of the tank, shouting something in Icelandic and covering his eyes. "Are we under attack?"

"He's saying 'I'm sorry,'" Mikkel translated with a glance at Reynir, whose face was now as red as his hair, "so I would think not."

Still, Sigrun did not relax while Mikkel turned to the kid and asked what in the Hel he was talking about. He seemed far more reluctant to answer than she would have thought of someone who was in mortal danger, his responses being dragged out of him word by word while his face got redder and redder. Finally, though, Mikkel turned back to her.

"He seems to have stumbled upon our lovers."

"Oh, is that all?" Sigrun sat down again and re-sheathed her dagger. "Well tell him not to be such a baby about it. Sheesh. Didn't his parents ever tell him about the boy who cried troll?"

* * *

"I thought you knew," Emil said when Tuuri cornered him to demand _what_ was going on between him and Lalli, and _when_ it had started.

" _Knew?_ " Tuuri sputtered. "I… how… why…" Her Swedish seemed to be rapidly deserting her as she groped for words. " _Why would you think I would know something like that?_ " she came out with at last.

"Well it's not exactly easy to find a private spot in this tank," he countered, shifting another stack of books into their now-empty food crate. "I even learned how to say 'I'm sorry' in Icelandic from the number of times Reynir's come up on us by accident."

To her chagrin, Reynir confirmed this account.

"Oh yeah," he said as he sketched a protective rune on the floor of the tank. "I wasn't trying to, but… well, it was hard _not_ to, with how often they were making out."

The icing on the cake, though, came when they returned to Mora.

"So," Onni started from the other side of the glass wall that was keeping her quarantined. "I understand that Lalli has a boyfriend."

"Lalli _told_ you?" Lalli never told Onni _anything_ about his personal life. In truth, Tuuri felt mildly betrayed—Lalli had gone all the way to the dream plane to tell Onni, but he hadn't seen fit to inform _her_ , when they'd been crammed into the same tank for months on end?

"No," Onni answered. "That other mage you've got with you let it slip. As a matter of fact, _Reynir_ seemed to be under the impression that it was hardly a secret among you." Her brother was now giving her a rather scrutinizing look.

"I…" Tuuri bit her lip. "I'm sure that not _everyone_ knew about it," she mumbled instead.

"What, you didn't notice?" Sigrun asked after she was out of quarantine. "Well, guess that's what you get for spending so much time with your head buried in those books of yours."

 _Was I seriously the last one to know about this?_ she wondered again, when Mikkel gave her an answer that was irritatingly similar.

By the time they returned to Torbjörn and Siv's house to find they were not only throwing a party for Emil, but offering Lalli a spot as the guest of honor, she had completely given up on being surprised.


	65. Horror

**Prompt:** Horror

 **Characters:** Emil, Lalli, Sigrun

 **Warnings:** Murder; heavily implied familial abuse/captivity.

* * *

"The scout?" Sigrun whispered in his ear, resting a hand on his shoulder to get his attention.

"Uh…" Emil scanned the husks of trees ahead of him, eyes darting here and there for any sign of his friend. A flash of white, through the tree husks up ahead. "There!"

He had no way of knowing why Lalli had shaken him awake in the dead of night only the second day after they'd returned from their mission, nor why he'd insisted on circling round to the women's barracks next to get Sigrun out of bed as well. They had no translator: Tuuri was still isolated in quarantine, and when Emil had tried to take Lalli back to her cell, or at least to inquire around the base for someone else who spoke Finnish, Lalli had instead grabbed him by the wrist and all but bodily dragged him into the Cleansed area that lay over the bridge.

Now, he'd stopped asking questions—Sigrun hadn't asked any to begin with, only gone along with Lalli without so much as a word of protest. They'd both decided to trust Lalli, to put their lives in his hands. After all, he hadn't led them astray yet.

When they'd finally caught up to Lalli, Emil saw that he had paused, his eyes scanning up and down the rows of burnt-out husks of buildings on either side of the street. Moonlight glinted on his hair as he turned his head to first one side, then to the other.

"Perkele." Then, without further warning, Lalli was running to the door of the nearest house, cautiously easing it open so he could peer inside. Whatever he found there didn't seem to satisfy him, for he gave a soft hiss and left the door hanging on its hinges before moving on to the next and giving it the same treatment, and the next after that.

Emil looked at Sigrun; she too was watching Lalli, her eyes narrowed. "So what do we do now?" he whispered.

"We do what he's doing." Already she was striding forward, drawing her dagger. "Whatever it is he's looking for, I have a feeling we'll know it when we see it."

It had taken Emil a long time to realize, but Sigrun had been right when she'd said the dead were not scary, only sad. After enough time spent combing old Rash hospitals, you stopped noticing the visceral horror of withered human skin or twisted skeletons, some of them still hooked up to whatever tubes and needles the Old World doctors had stuck into them in an effort to keep them going. Instead, you started to see the little details: the faces twisted in pain, a dead mother with a dead child still at her breast, a single hand reaching out as if for help that would not come.

The Cleansers' fire had left no bodies here, only bones. Still, the lingering sadness remained: in the reflection of moonlight from a glint of silver jewelry, in a child's toy half-blackened and left on the floor to rot. He didn't linger to dwell on it. Whatever it was that Lalli was looking for, Emil was sure that it was far more important than the burnt-out echoes of the past.

Ironically, when he first saw something that _wasn't_ an echo, he almost didn't notice.

The movement was slight, something he never would have noticed a few months ago: but when your life depends on your ability to see monsters before they see you, you either get a lot better at spotting them, or you end up as troll food. Emil had gotten better. Raising his torch with one hand and gripping the hilt of his dagger with the other, he switched on the light.

It was not a troll that cringed away from the bright light when Emil swept the room, nor was it any variety of Beast. It was a human girl.

Sheathing his dagger, he hurried forward to the pile of blankets— _new, recently-washed blankets_ —on which she sat. As he approached her eyes went wide and she jerked back away from him, lurching to her feet, but no sooner had she stood than she collapsed back onto the blankets with a cry of pain.

"It's okay, I won't hurt you." Please please please please _please_ let her know at least one Scandinavian language. She did not respond, only shivered and shrank back even as he knelt beside her; looking her over, Emil could see that her clothing was inadequate to the cold, consisting of only a single layer, threadbare and ripped, that might have suited a summer's day, but not the middle of the night in early spring. Not only that, she was injured as well: her unkempt hair was clotted with dried blood, and one of her ankles swollen to almost twice the size of the other. Her bare feet were tinged blue with the cold. "I'm here to help." Even as he spoke Emil was unstrapping his rifle and bandolier, before shrugging out of his own jacket and wrapping it around her shoulders.

"Did Lalli send you?"

The question, spoken in soft Norwegian (thank all the gods he didn't believe in), made him start; _what_ , exactly, was going on here? No time to ponder it now, though; he'd just have to wait and get a translation out of Tuuri later. "Yeah," he said instead. "I guess he did." He was just getting ready to help her up when footsteps sounded behind him, and the girl's eyes widened as she looked past him at whoever had entered the room. Emil turned, expecting Lalli or Sigrun.

It wasn't Lalli or Sigrun.

The woman who stood in the doorway, arms crossed, was close to middle age, the lines on her face and the gray in her hair only beginning to make themselves known—but her eyes, hard and glinting, were the exact shape and color as the girl's.

"What's going on here?" she asked. Her voice was cold and clipped.

"I was about to ask you the exact same question." Emil spoke a lot more bravely than he felt: she was armed, a gun resting loosely in her hands, and helvete, he had left his own rifle sitting on the floor like an idiot.

"What goes on in my family is none of your concern." She turned her attention to the girl. "And what have I told _you_ about talking to strangers?"

"I'm sorry." Already she was shrugging out of the jacket, and meekly handing it back to Emil. "You can have your jacket back now."

"No, you keep it." He turned back to the older woman. "And we're not done here."

"Yes," she cocked the rifle, "we are."

A lot of things happened at once, then.

Emil dove by reflex to the floor. A shot rang out into the night. Small hands gripped his arm. When he looked up again, both guns were on the floor and the woman had been pushed up against the wall by a tall, skinny Finn.

" _Lalli._ " The cacophony of the shot was followed by the frantic pounding of booted feet, and then Sigrun burst through the doorway as well. "What happened?"

Emil explained as best he could, while Lalli preoccupied himself by forcing the woman to the floor and binding her arms behind her back. Sigrun only nodded through his story before turning her attention to the girl. Though Sigrun only managed to get a few sentences out of her, the little that Emil did hear made him feel sick to his stomach.

"Okay, I've heard enough." Sigrun nodded at the girl. "Emil, get her out of here. And take Twig with you."

Emil obeyed these orders with a not inconsiderable amount of relief. As he was helping the girl onto his back, though, he got to witness Sigrun and Lalli have a brief, silent, nonverbal, but very intense argument.

Sigrun pointed out the door, giving a command that was impossible to mistake regardless of language. Lalli didn't budge. Again she pointed; Lalli crossed his arms, looked her right in the eye, and emphatically shook his head. The disagreement only ended with Sigrun grabbed Lalli by the shoulders, physically turned him so he was facing the door, and _pushed_ him so hard he staggered on the way out.

"Get back to the base," she ordered as Emil approached soon after, the girl now settled comfortably on his back, "and make sure that _he_ goes with you. Don't wait up for me."

Much as he wanted to argue (no one gets left behind in the Silent World, as Sigrun herself had taught him), his passenger was shivering violently, and while Emil was no doctor he still thought she should get some medical attention as soon as possible. He nodded his consent.

"Good man." Sigrun took a moment to pat his shoulder as he passed her on his way out the door.

"Come on, let's go." Lalli was still glaring at Sigrun, but when Emil gave him his most pleading expression, he followed willingly. As they walked away, he heard Sigrun's voice, which had reached a low, guttural growl that he hoped never to hear from her again: "On. Your. _Knees_."

They were more than halfway back to the base when Lalli stopped, and could not be persuaded to move.

"Lalli? Hold on," he whispered to the girl, and doubled back. "Lalli, what's wrong?"

Lalli didn't answer, of course: he was staring back the way they had come. That look usually meant there was a troll or beast on the way. Emil swore mentally; he could not fight, but neither could he abandon Lalli, leaving his friend to fight alone…

Footsteps approached. Emil strained his eyes to look into the dark, and eventually managed to make out Sigrun. Alone. In the process of re-sheathing her dagger.

Her eyes flashed dangerously when she caught sight of the two of them. "I thought I told you not to wait up."

"We were on our way, I promise. I just thought that Lalli had spotted a troll."

For a moment, she only stared at them, but then let out a sigh. "Well come on, then."

* * *

Emil stayed with the girl until she drifted off to sleep. Then, he was obligated to tell the full story again, this time to the officials, who wanted far more detail than Sigrun had. Even after they had finished with him, he spotted Taru trying to get the same report out of Lalli. Sigrun also seemed to be giving a report, in this case to Trond. Emil caught the tail end of it.

"…did you do with her?"

"I dealt with her according to protocol." That alone seemed to satisfy him; he only gave a nod. Turning, Sigrun saw Emil, and gave him a tired smile. It was the first time he had seen her look tired—not just physically exhausted, but truly worn to the bone—in all the time he had known her.

"Sigrun?" he asked, timidly—he felt like a rookie all over again, being dragged into a dark troll nest by his commanding officer he was convinced was legally insane. Uncharted territory. "What's…" He swallowed, searched for the right word, failed to find it. "…protocol?" he settled on at last.

Her only response was a weary smile—but without a trace of actual happiness. "We put our lives on the line to protect our people, Emil. We can't allow monsters into our villages—no matter where those monsters came from."

Try as he might, he could find no rest that night.

* * *

 **A/N:** Why did I do this? One of the things about this fandom that makes me so happy is the lack of interpersonal violence in the canon universe.


	66. Traps

**Prompt:** Traps

 **Characters:** Emil, Sigrun

* * *

"So… um, Sigrun? Exactly how intelligent _are_ trolls, anyway?"

"Depends how thick of a nest you've got. When they're on their own, most trolls are pretty dumb. Get a bunch of them together, though… well, I don't know exactly how it works, but I guess they have a lot more brains to work with."

"I… see." Emil slumped back against the wall, looking up at the patch of ceiling that was visible at the top of the hole they'd fallen into when what had looked like a reasonably solid piece of floor had turned out to be nothing but a lot of loose tiles laid carefully atop a thin layer of troll moss. They still had a ways to go before sunset, but… it was pretty dark in here, and if there was anything that still lived in this building, it _must_ have heard the noise of their fall.

"First things first." Sigrun's voice snapped him out of an increasingly panicky state of mind. "Are you hurt?"

"I… don't _think_ so." Every part of his body ached with forming bruises and his tailbone was _killing_ him, but he could still move all of his limbs without any trouble, and he didn't appear to be bleeding. "No. Not badly."

"Good. Now let's see where we are."

Thankfully, Sigrun's flashlight had not been damaged in the fall. (Emil was no longer allowed to carry one, not after he'd ruined his first one by throwing it at a troll's face even though he'd had a knife in hand.) Its beam, when she shone it around the room, revealed that they'd fallen into some sort of cellar: stone walls surrounded them on three sides; the fourth was almost entirely blocked by a heap of fallen rubble, behind which the top of a doorframe was just barely visible. The hole that they'd fallen through appeared to be the remains of a stairwell, now absent any stairs. They weren't going to be getting back out of here via either of the intended exits.

"So what do we do now?" Emil wasn't even sure why he was bothering to whisper; he was sure that any trolls that were about would be able to find him by the pounding of his heart alone.

"We sit tight." Sigrun propped her flashlight up against the rubble before resting a hand on the hilt of her dagger; she had not moved from where she'd fallen. "And don't panic. There's no way we're climbing out of here, and the others ought to realize we're taking too long soon enough. Mikkel can bring a rope to haul us out."

"And if we're attacked before then?"

She shrugged. "Then we fight."

"Oh." Emil did not like this plan. As a matter of fact, he was liking this plan less and less with each passing minute.

"Talk."

"What?"

"Or sing, whichever you prefer." She shifted her weight a bit, propping herself up on one elbow. "We don't want to attract trolls, but we still have to give the others a way to find us if they do come looking."

"Um… I don't really know any good songs." And he couldn't think of any good subject matter for conversation. "This ever happened to you before?"

"Once or twice."

"You got out of it?"

"Obviously."

"Oh. Right." Wow that had been a stupid question. "How?"

Sigrun shrugged. "Once I was able to climb back up on my own. The others I just had to wait for someone to haul me out. Last time was the worst. I ended up buried under a whole bunch of rubble, and spent a few hours singing war ballads to keep myself calm. Wasn't sure whether anyone would hear me, or if they'd be able to dig me out even if they did. So really, this isn't so bad."

Not for the first time, Emil felt more than a little overwhelmed. Here he was on his first real mission, with the slowest career progress in the entire Swedish army and no field experience that didn't involve guarding the camp, out in the middle of the Silent World with a commanding officer who could run circles around him in her sleep. He let out a sigh.

"C'mon, Emil, you've gotta talk too. I can't hold up this whole conversation all by myself."

"…why do you like me?"

She blinked. "Um, what?"

"I'm completely useless. And you're…" _…a confident, skilled Viking who'd probably be right at home in Asgard._ "…not. How can someone like me be right-hand warrior to someone like you?"

"Okay, that's the stupidest thing I've heard all day. I—"

"Are you okay down there?"

They both looked up. Mikkel was standing on the edge of the hole they'd fallen into, looking down.

"We'll live," Sigrun called back. "We're going to need a rope, though." Mikkel disappeared again with a nod.

"Sigrun, I was being stupid. I shouldn't have said—"

"Emil." She held out a hand. "Shut up, and help me up."

"Why…" Was she hurt? Come to think of it, she hadn't tried to move once ever since they'd fallen. Grasping the offered hand, he hauled her to her feet. Immediately she caught herself on his shoulder; though she tried, briefly, to stand, the second she attempted to put weight on her right leg she withdrew it again with a hiss of pain.

"Yeah, that's not happening. Give me your shoulder."

"O-of course." The height difference made things somewhat awkward, but eventually they managed to find an arrangement that worked, even though Sigrun was almost bending over to lean on him. Keeping a supportive arm wrapped around her waist, Emil helped her limp to the other side of the room. By the time they were into position, Mikkel had returned and was lowering a rope.

They didn't even need to consult: Sigrun took it first, since she couldn't stand on her own. Once she was safely out of the hole, Mikkel lowered the rope to Emil.

* * *

That night, Emil volunteered to bring her food. He'd also offered to let her use his bunk, since she wasn't in any condition to climb up to her own.

 _"Broken," Mikkel declared after looking her over in the office, her boot off and her pant leg rolled up past her knee. "It's just as well we were about to head back in a few days anyway. It won't do our mission much harm to cut it a few days short."_

"Dinner?" Emil held up a bowl.

"Thanks." She reached out to take it; she was sitting above the covers, her broken leg, now set and splinted, propped up against a pillow. Using her spoon, she pointed to the bed on the other wall. "Sit."

Emil sat.

For a few seconds, she only poked at the sludge with an expression of disgust on her face, before taking up a spoonful and shoving it into her mouth anyway.

"You have to work with the team you've got," Sigrun said at last, setting the bowl down in favor of looking back at him. "Unless you're a trained scout, you can't go into the field alone and expect to survive. Doesn't matter how good I am, or how good you're not. I'd have been _dead_ out there if you and Mikkel hadn't been around. The people who don't figure that out are also the ones who don't live very long.

"Experience is something you _earn_ ," she continued, "by doing exactly what you've been doing all winter. What, did you think I was just _born_ great?"

"Well…" Now that he thought about it, it was incredibly hard to picture Sigrun as a young cadet, and incredibly easy to picture her coming out of her mother's womb with a knife in one hand, a gun in the other, and a dead troll between her teeth.

Some of his thoughts must have shown on his face, for Sigrun answered him with a smirk. "Thought so. Granted, you've got a few years to go yet before you're as awesome as me. But you survived a winter in the Silent World; I'd say you're well on your way."

In all honesty, Emil still didn't understand completely. Maybe he _wouldn't_ understand, until he had ten more years under his belt himself. One thing he finally did understand, though: whenever Sigrun had told him he was valued, she had meant it every time. That, at least, was something worth holding onto.


	67. Playing the Melody

**Prompt:** Playing the Melody

 **Characters:** Onni, Trond

* * *

Onni still didn't know what to make of the Norwegian.

On the surface, he was a grumpy old man—and that was fine. No, really, it was. Trond might not always be the most polite person in the Known World, but at least he said exactly what he meant, rather than dancing around the social niceties that almost everyone else seemed to be so obsessed with. Onni could live with that. It was refreshing, not to have to jump through hoops every time Trond said something to figure out what he _really_ meant. Trond, or at least that side of him, was easy enough to deal with.

Then, of course, there was the _other_ side.

Trond had the _weirdest_ taste when it came to music.

Of course, Onni had noticed the background music when Trond was evening out his hair, but he hadn't thought anything of it at the time. The kids had left the radio on, he thought, or maybe Siv just liked to listen to music while she cooked.

It wasn't until he heard the same tune again, this time while Trond was alone in the sitting room reading the newspaper, that he started to get suspicious.

The singer had an annoyingly high-pitched voice, and was carrying her tune in no language that Onni knew. Trond seemed to like his music _loud_ , too—Onni could barely hear his own voice as he demanded, "What _is_ that?"

"I'm not turning it off." Trond flipped another page in his newspaper without once looking up.

From then on, it seemed he was hearing it _everywhere_.

It was playing when Trond read his paper in the living room. It was playing while Trond was eating his breakfast in the kitchen. It was even playing when Trond was waiting by the radio for a call from the crew. The craziest thing was, their hosts didn't seem to mind one bit.

"Nice to hear a bit of Old World music once in a while," Torbjörn commented one day. "Makes you think of those good Old World books and Old World medicine that'll be bringing in some nice New World money for us."

Still, when he walked into a store to hear it playing in the background, Onni thought he was going completely out of his mind.

No, no, _no_ , he told himself over and over. He might have no choice but to listen to it, but there was no way he was going to allow himself to _like_ it. He didn't care _what_ Trond thought. Old man must have just about lost his hearing anyway; Taru had once told him that deafness was the leading disability among the Norwegian troops. He'd probably been caught up in one too many explosions, and no longer had the capacity to tell what good music sounded like. That was all.

It wasn't until Onni was in the shower, and caught himself singing to himself in an alien language, that he finally accepted his fate.

"Mamma mia, here I go again…"


	68. Hero

**Prompt:** Hero

 **Characters:** Reynir, Lalli, murderghosts

 **Soundtrack:** "Home by the Sea" by Genesis

* * *

He _had_ to.

Reynir steeled as himself as he walked first one pace, then another, away from the tank, away from safety and shelter. The filters of his mask wheezed with every breath. Shadows closed in around him as he pushed his way through the mist, and he could only hope that his amateurish protective spells would be enough to hold them off.

He _had_ to lead them away from the others.

It seemed that the longer they ran from them, the stronger—and faster—the ghosts had become. When they'd finally caught up, there was no running, no fighting, no _anything_ , and only Reynir's fledgling magic had kept him from passing out on the floor with the others.

Another shadow materialized at his side from among the horde of swarming ghosts: solid, real, and glaring at him with eerie silver eyes. "Oh… hey Lalli." He tried to smile. His face couldn't seem to find the right motions.

"Tyhmä ulkomaalainen."

Whatever that was, it probably hadn't been intended as praise for his courage. Nevertheless, Reynir felt a surge of gratitude for his presence.

"Thank you for coming."

Lalli didn't answer, and Reynir didn't say anything more. Shadows were now swarming around his protective shield, pressing in on him so insistently it was like trying to hold back a high tide with nothing but his hands, and it was all he could do not to collapse under the weight of their fury. Something tugged his sleeve.

He looked. Lalli was still beside him, hand on his wrist and staring intently ahead—not at the ghosts but _through_ them. Following his gaze, Reynir saw a relatively sturdy-looking Old World building… and standing in front of it, his dog, ears flattened nervously against its head. It barked once, twice, and then turned around and vanished into the entrance.

"I think it wants us to follow."

Now he was the one who had hold of Lalli's wrist, as much for his own comfort as for the purpose of guiding the other mage. He didn't know what waited for them there, if anything—there were a lot of shadows in there; for all he knew, he could have been leading both of them into a death trap. He didn't know how to do magic; he didn't even know his own gods. All he could do was trust his luck, and follow wherever this deeper part of him led.

Their feet crossed the threshold—and Reynir realized he'd been here before.

The space was exceedingly large, almost cavernous, and lined front to back with long wooden benches, positioned to either side to form an aisle right down the middle. Slowly, as if in a trance, Reynir walked down the aisle, even his panic fear momentarily forgotten. There: a holder, just the right shape and size to place the candle he'd picked up when he'd been unable to find a working flashlight. There: a window, made up of many pieces of colored glass, depicting a man with a long, curved staff: a shepherd, guiding his sheep.

A sudden hiss from behind him brought his attention back to Lalli, and only then did he realize that he'd lost focus and allowed his protective shield to weaken—yet the ghosts weren't attacking.

They hadn't gone, but seemed strangely reluctant to enter. Eventually, though, they seeped in, worming their way through every shadow and crack, rolling up the ceiling, trickling over the floor, and covering the walls to the light of his guttering candle. Lalli hissed again as a chill breeze swept over them, but Reynir held out a hand to stop him from doing whatever it was he seemed about to do.

" _They become scared and frustrated if they can't find their way to the afterlife, which makes them grow… wrong. And angry._ "

"Who were you?" Reynir whispered, walking among them. "And why was this place important to you?"

 _…might they remember who they used to be…?_

Once more, he held a hand out to Lalli. _Stop. Don't try anything. I have an idea._

Slowly, he walked to the front of the building. Occasional shadows swirled around him, but still they did not attack. They were waiting.

Reynir settled himself on the frontmost bench. He turned to look behind him. The ghosts were also sitting all around, silent, watching and waiting almost as if in… reverence. He let out a breath. He didn't know what was going to happen, but fighting was getting them nowhere. They had to communicate somehow.

"Okay," he said. "I'm ready."

He dropped the shield entirely.

For a moment, all was still. Then, all of the shadows converged on him.

Vaguely, he heard Lalli's shout behind him. That was a secondary concern, though: Reynir could now feel not only their icy fingers bearing down on him but also their _minds_ , shouting and clamoring and competing for his attention. This place… _this_ place… they were barely remembering yet, but they had all gathered here, once, to… community… singing… to _worship_ …

This scrap of information redoubled their hunger, their yearning for more more _more_ , and Reynir screamed as they swirled ever tighter around him and pressed on his mind. Despair… they'd been abandoned… their gods… no, _god_ … all-powerful… all loving… yet they had not been spared… the heathens and their gods were the ones who'd survived…

Angry… they'd grown angry… who were they… who were they supposed to be, if not followers of their god? If they were not to join the angels, they might as well become demons…

"You're humans!" he protested; he didn't even know anymore whether he spoke aloud. "You had lives, loved ones… you can have rest!" Steeling himself, he took a few deep breaths, aware that the pain he'd already suffered was _nothing_ in comparison to what he was inviting. "Try to remember."

They didn't need someone telling them what to do. They needed someone to _listen_.

At first, it was only figments, brief flashes. People singing in unison, soaring on the wave of their voices. A baby, dipped in water. Children opening gifts. Home.

A bright summer's day. A man carrying his young daughter on his shoulders. A family wept before a casket. A man and woman kissed on the very alter which was now before him. Their joys, hopes, fears, sorrows, _love_ … all hit him at once, moved through him, left him shaking uncontrollably where he sat with tears streaming down his face.

He wasn't going to survive this, was he?

 _It's… okay. I was useless to this mission anyway. If five more people can live, and hundreds find rest, at the price of one, then…_

A voice—a _human_ voice—was raised behind him. Another one joined it, the voices twined together harmoniously in a Finnish chant. Lalli, a spectral lynx at his side, and an equally insubstantial owl, unaccompanied by a human form… _Onni_.

Of course. They'd remembered who they were. Their minds were human again—human enough to allow human mages to guide them to a place of rest. It might not be _their_ place of rest, but Reynir hoped that they would still have peace, now that they were free of their eternal torment.

A smile spread over his face as he slumped where he sat, his head hitting the wood of the pew with a resounding crack.

* * *

"So what's wrong with him?" Emil tried to peer around Mikkel's shoulder at the red-haired Icelander on the floor, who still shook with the occasional shiver in spite of the number of blankets that the medic had wrapped around his shoulders. "Did he get hurt when he went off by himself?" Needless to say, all of them passing out at once, only to wake up and find the civilian they were supposed to be protecting gone, had been disturbing, to say the least.

Mikkel, however, shook his head. "This isn't due to any physical injury—though until I can get a report from either him or Lalli, we'll need to keep him and Tuuri separated due to the risk of infection. I've seen this before, in some of the survivors of Kastrup." He took a moment to press a mug of hot tea into Reynir's hands; he took it automatically, but did not drink. "Whether or not they were hurt, some of them witnessed events too horrible or intense for their minds to handle."

"I've seen it too." Surprised, he looked back at Sigrun; she was leaning against the opposite wall with her arms crossed, but in spite of her apparent nonchalance, she had spent the entire time watching Reynir intently. "Some of the older soldiers, and a few of the younger ones who just weren't cut out for the job… Well. You're a Hunter, you see stuff." She did not share details.

"Anything we can do for him?" Emil asked. Reynir was conscious but he didn't seem to be all _there_ ; he clutched the hot mug in his hands as if he didn't know quite what to do with it as he stared right past Mikkel, past Emil and Sigrun, as if he were looking at something on the other side of the tank wall, and he hadn't spoken a single word of any language since Lalli had pushed and prodded him back to their campsite. It was true Emil and Reynir didn't know each other very well, but he'd never liked to see anyone suffer.

"In this situation? I'm afraid not much. Keep him warm, make sure he eats, and give reassurance if he needs it. The rest, he'll have to pull through on his own."

"I see." In other words, _he_ could do nothing: Mikkel was already on the practical side of things, and Emil could not even give reassurances in a language he did not speak. He was just about to head out and see whether Tuuri had managed to extract a report of Lalli yet, to feel at least mildly useful if nothing else, when Lalli pushed his way into the room.

He said nothing. Instead, he went straight to Reynir, pushing even Mikkel aside. Reynir looked up at him dazedly, but at least with a bit more focus than he'd shown anyone else up to that point. Lalli gently curled his hands around Reynir's, giving the other a small smile as he did so. Nobody was sure what he did, or what had passed between them while they were out on their own, but at long last, Reynir raised the mug to his lips and began to drink.

* * *

 **A/N:** I had no idea what I was going to do for this prompt. Then this song played on my Pandora station, and everything else was history.


	69. Annoyance

**Prompt:** Annoyance

 **Characters:** Mikkel, Sigrun

* * *

Their captain was not in the position she was in without reason.

Sigrun had proven herself in the field, several times over; Mikkel had seen her do it. By this point, he'd accepted that the person he'd once thought ought to be kept on a leash had actual talent, not only as a fighter but as a leader as well. He'd seen her unhesitatingly use her own limb to protect a civilian and compensate for the resulting injury without missing a beat—not to mention he couldn't think of many people who could keep still while having wounds stitched, which had made his job _immensely_ easier. He'd seen her keep a cool head under pressure, adapt in a heartbeat to a changed situation, and prioritize the safety of the vulnerable members of their crew even when her own life was in danger. By this point in the mission, Sigrun had thoroughly earned his respect.

That said… he still sometimes thought she ought to be kept on a leash. Or at the very least sedated until she was actually needed in the field.

"So how much longer to Odense?"

"We're only a day out," he reminded her as he served out their dinner. "We might encounter some unexpected obstacles along the way as well. This is a journey through the Silent World, not a train ride."

"Oh, not long at all," Tuuri answered to his dismay when Sigrun asked the same question of her later on that evening—he suspected that "not long" meant something very, very different to an academic who did tedious reporting for a living than to a soldier who saw so much action in her normal job that she considered this mission a relaxing vacation. "We'll be in Odense before you know it!"

If Tuuri had been one of his siblings, Mikkel would have taken her aside and given her a stern lecture on the subject of giving false hope. As it was, he simply gave an inward sigh and resigned himself to the next few days.

"So… how long till we get to Odense, now?"

"Only a few more days! …probably. I _think_."

"Are we getting close yet?"

"Well, we're more than halfway there, so… yes?"

"How many more days do we have left of this driving?"

"A few. I just fixed the engine; please be patient." Even Tuuri was looking rather hassled at this point.

"Will we get to Odense today?"

"No."

"Tomorrow?"

"Probably not."

"The day _after_ tomorrow?"

"Maybe. If our luck is really good. And if Lalli manages to find us a clear route. And if the engine doesn't catch on fire again…"

"Are we there yet?"

"No." Tuuri's hair was now sticking up in all directions, even more so than usual, from the number of times she'd pulled it in frustration.

"Are we there yet?"

"Nei." Even Reynir had learned to recognize the question by this point, and to give the appropriate response in perfect Norwegian.

"Are we there yet?"

"We'll get there when we get there," Mikkel consulted. "Constantly asking won't make us move any faster."

When they finally reached Odense, everyone piled out of the tank and ran as far away as they could from the others while still remaining within sight of their camp. Lalli alone seemed unhassled, but then again, _he_ had gotten to spend the day outside.

"I _never_ want to take a trip that long again," Tuuri muttered, pressing a hand to her forehead while Reynir took a long moment to stretch in the background, his joints audibly creaking.

Mikkel was fine with long trips, himself—just not long trips with Sigrun. Maybe on the way to the rendezvous point, he'd see if he could convince her to ride on the roof.


	70. Bound and Gagged

**Prompt:** Bound and Gagged

 **Characters:** The Patients Zero

 **Warnings:** Oh boy. My crimes against humanity in this chapter include kidnapping/abduction, medical abuse, force feeding, and human experimentation. Read at your own risk.

* * *

"What do you _want?_ "

You ask again and again, but they do not answer, and the language they speak among themselves is not your language. So all you can do is wonder and fear, your heart pounding against your ribcage as you're moved from one cramped dark space to another, your hands bound behind your back and your legs tied together at the ankles, a hood thrown over your head whenever there's enough light that you'd otherwise be able to see.

It can't be money. _They're_ the ones who offered _you_ a job; they must have known you had nothing to your name when you accepted it without question because your mother broke her hip last week and can't take care of herself and can't get better treatment because she can't _pay_ , and you already spent all you have just to buy her food, and you can't get a job that makes much money because you didn't have more than two years of schooling and you can't read or write, and no one around here would hire someone like you anyway, so when the foreigners offered you easy work and good pay you took it because you were desperate and didn't ask too many questions…

You don't know how much time is going by. Sometimes you feel the bumps and jolts of a driving car; sometimes you're simply set on a hard floor and left there for long periods of time, alone. During these periods you try to call for help, but can't make anything more than a series of muffled moans through the hood and through the dirty rag someone has knotted and tied in your mouth. Your stomach starts growling. You're desperately thirsty. Warm liquid soaks your legs when the car whose trunk you've been stuffed into hits a particularly deep pothole, then slowly cools and is a constant irritant to your legs as hours pass and nobody comes back to check up on you.

Finally, the motion stops. You think you're about to be moved from one trunk to another again, and brace yourself, but instead the hood is yanked roughly from your head. The people surrounding you also cover their faces, only their eyes visible through the slits of their black masks. You can't tell whether or not they're the same ones who kidnapped you to begin with.

They free your hands, but you're too weak to fight back when two of them take one arm each and pin them to the ground and a third sits on your legs, or when yet another sticks a needle into the crook of your elbow. Immediately you feel woozy. Everything goes black.

* * *

When you wake up, you're on a bed, of sorts: narrow, white, slightly bent at the middle so your head and shoulders are propped up. There's an IV in your arm. You've been cleaned up, but you don't even have so much as a single sheet to cover your nudity, and you shiver in the dank air of the basement where they've put you. Both arms and both legs have been strapped down, both above and below the joints. There are more straps around your torso, so you don't even have a hope of wiggling your way to freedom.

Your throat aches far worse than it did even during the worst illnesses you've had, but nevertheless you try once more to call for help. Only then do you discover that you no longer have a voice.

They come in from time to time. They still don't speak in any language you know, and now you can't even demand answers anymore. One of them examines you, looking in your eyes and ears and taking long moments to peer down your throat while you squirm uncomfortably against your bonds but are unable to resist. Another, somewhat shorter, brings you food, blended liquids in a cup which is held to your lips. When you spit it back out, they force a tube down your nose instead.

One day, they come in wearing bulky white suits that cover their whole bodies, their faces hidden no longer by masks but by faceplates. They press something under your nose: a piece of cotton. You try not to, but eventually you have no choice but to breathe.

You're expecting further horrors, but that's all they do—yet somehow, that insignificant piece of cotton is the worst thing that's happened to you yet. Everything after is more of the same. They still say nothing. They still force you to eat, and they still won't let you go.

You're not sure how much time passes before the itching starts.

At first, you think it's just one of the more mundane minor nuisances that have been piling up on top of the unending nightmare, small twinges on your scalp or the backs of your legs that you'd barely even notice if only you were able to _scratch_ them. Before long, though, you're thrashing frantically against your bonds, not even in an attempt to loosen but just to rub _something_ against _something_ so you can get even one second of relief.

You barely even notice when they let you go. You see one last glimpse of the people in white suits, one last glint of a needle.

Next thing you know you're waking up in a rocking boat, surrounded by a small group of other people. Not the same people who kidnapped you: people like you, skinny, wide-eyed, wearing rags if they're wearing anything at all, their faces and limbs splotched with an ever-spreading red stain.

It's a quiet boat ride. It doesn't take long to discover that none of you can speak.

It isn't long before you're picked up, no longer than the time between one sunrise and the next. When a bunch of uniformed foreigners haul you to shore, though, all the while shouting demands at you in a language you can't understand, then take you to a hospital with white beds and needles and restraints, you're too busy thrashing in mindless panic to even attempt to communicate what's been done to you or the danger that they're in.

* * *

 **A/N:** I initially had no idea what to do with this prompt. The most obvious choices were either bondage (which is _way_ out of my comfort zone), or the sort of interpersonal violence that I'm even less comfortable writing, at least for the Y90 era. I was just about to go with a Dalsnes military hazing ritual when _this_ monstrosity popped into my head completely uninvited.


	71. Obsession

**Prompt:** Obsession

 **Characters:** Emil

 **Warning:** For some self-destructive behavior

* * *

At first, it was easy to make a good first impression. After all, he had money (or at least, his parents did). He was a Västerström. That alone made him worthy of others' notice, and ensured that they would immediately see him in a respectful light.

Years later, right around the time he learned the meaning of the word "debt," Emil also learned that though he might still have the name, the money was long gone. People didn't respect him—they laughed at him. They didn't see the heir of the respected Västerström family; they saw only the fat kid who spilled food on himself. He would have to do better.

During his second year in public school he started getting up two hours early to make himself presentable.

He brushed his hair so many times it started to shine as if with its own light. He washed his clothes again and again if they acquired even the slightest stain, and then panicked because his clothes had holes in them, patched them (badly, because he could no longer afford to pay anyone else to do the work), and panicked again because his sloppy patching job made him look like a bum.

Sometimes, when he was sure he was alone, Emil took off his shirt and stood in front of the mirror, poking and prodding the fat on his belly and his baby-round face with a feeling of intense self-loathing.

He'd been told, once or twice, what it meant to become a man: his voice would deepen, and his height would shoot up like a tree. Oh, how he'd always longed for the day when he would be as tall as Uncle Torbjörn! He was supposed to be tall and good-looking, the perfect recipe for a perfect first impression.

Instead, his body betrayed him. He stopped growing before he'd even caught up with Aunt Siv—or at least, he stopped growing _up_. Everybody laughed at him. Nobody liked him. Fat, short, stupid… _that_ was the first impression they saw when they saw him. That was who he was— _it_ was who he was.

 _Why do you do this to me, you—stupid—!_ He demanded this of his body (not himself, no, not part of who he _really_ was) as he pushed it to its limits during basic, as his arms shook and gave out on him and would not hold his weight no matter how aggressively he willed them to _keep going, fan du!_

He wasn't the only one among the recruits who'd joined the Cleansers with a bit of excess weight. He wasn't the only one who'd started off as a weakling. He was, however, the only person who remained a weakling—the people who'd joined the Cleansers with him rose through the ranks far faster than Emil did, while he ran and ran and ran and still stayed in one place. They must have seen what was staring him in the face every day.

 _It's okay_ , he told himself before he met the Finns. This mission was a fresh start, with no on who'd known him previously. All he needed to get right was the first impression. He'd lost the weight—he'd finally accepted by now that he would never be _tall_ , but his hair was perfect and his clothes were immaculate (even if they did have to touch those revolting sofas so he could sleep). He needed to make sure that he was presentable by the time they arrived, that was all, and they'd be off to a good start.

It wasn't _him_. Nothing short of perfection would suit.


	72. Mischief Managed

**Prompt:** Mischief Managed

 **Characters:** Onni, Trond, Emil's cousins

* * *

Onni was never, ever, _ever_ having children.

Let it never be claimed that he didn't _like_ children, and let it never be said that he didn't try to do right by the children who'd fallen into his care—but enough was enough. After raising his sister and his cousin by himself from the age of 18, he probably would have been ready for a nice long break regardless of circumstances before even _thinking_ of the possibility of having any of his own, but this cinched it.

Tuuri and Lalli had been hard enough as it was. _No way_ was he taking the risk of producing anything even remotely close to the level of these brats.

"I don't suppose you have any children," he asked Trond later that week, as the two of them sat in the radio room waiting for the team's call.

Trond snorted. "I'm honorary uncle to half the soldiers in Dalsnes. I'd have to be an idiot to subject myself to more of that. Not," he amended, "that I don't value idiots. But just because I've helped raise several dozen doesn't mean I'm one myself."

For a few minutes, they sat in silence, listening to the static that was emanating from the radio. Presently he realized that Trond was watching him intently, one eyebrow raised.

"What?"

"The brats got to you again, didn't they?"

"I'm perfectly capable of dealing with children! This stupid country's just been giving me hives!"

"Thought so." Trond sat back with a smirk. "I take it you'd like to not get any more hives?"

Onni cocked an eyebrow. "I'm listening."

* * *

"Honey? Are the kids sick?"

"I don't _think_ so. At least, they don't seem to be sick. Why do you ask?"

"Well, we haven't had any injuries in almost a week. Or any broken glass. Bosse seems unusually calm as well."

"They're definitely not running any fevers. I would have noticed when I put them to bed. And they all seemed hungry enough for dinner…"

"That's another thing. They _ate_ their dinner. _All_ of it. Not one stain on the floor or walls or our guests' hair… it's as if they've actually decided to _behave_ for once…"

"Oh _no_. You don't think they could be planning something again…?"

"Well, I thought so to, so I tried to get it out of them at bedtime. I didn't want them springing something on us again, especially during such an important mission."

"And…?"

"Well, they did talk, but it didn't make any _sense_. All they'd say was something about an owl monster."

"An _owl_ monster?"

"An owl monster. One that eats your ears if you're bad."

"Really? That's all it took? Telling them the trolls would get them if they didn't behave stopped working _ages_ ago!"

"I know! That's why I'm so confused! I'm guessing they actually saw something that made them come up with this fantasy, but I can't begin to imagine what."

* * *

"I suppose you're going to make up a story now about the epic battle that sliced off the tip of your ear."

"I was driving off a bunch of ghosts that were attacking my family." Onni crossed his arms.

"Hm, not bad. I suggest you tell that version if you ever come to Dalsnes. Although…" here Trond tapped his chin with a mischievous twinkle in his eye, "if anyone questions your story, I remember how most of them _really_ got their scars."

"I'll keep that in mind." Not that he ever planned on leaving the safe areas again, but saying as much would have been too much effort and too much embarrassment alike. "I'll have to keep that tactic in mind," he said instead—as he'd learned on this mission, there was absolutely nothing he could do that precluded the possibility of being around children. He had to keep his arsenal stocked with every technique he could find.

Trond smirked. "My personal favorite; I've had plenty of time to perfect it, after all. Remember to ask me sometime about this one girl I used to look after… or ask your sister, the two of them ought to know each other pretty well by now and she hasn't changed much at all…"


	73. I can't

**Prompt:** I can't.

 **Characters:** Mikkel, Tuuri

 **Ship:** Some subtle speculation on one-sided Tuuri crushing on Sigrun. It remains in speculation territory.

 **Warnings:** Some implied PTSD

* * *

At first, it was the little things, highly amusing if played right but not a cause for overt concern: the way she tiptoed around Sigrun and shamelessly manipulated everyone else, her apparent inability to translate a sentence unedited.

Of course, Mikkel had enough younger siblings to have already seen every trick in the book. He played her games, called her bluffs, and showed her that if she tried to go up against him, she would lose. After all, he'd disciplined his siblings. He could discipline his junior crewmates as well. She needed to learn that her actions had consequences, that running away from her responsibilities (or her siblings) would not make them go away, and she needed to learn it before she ended up pulling something that got them all killed.

It wasn't until she gave an estimate of several days for a trip that would take several weeks (and that assuming only the best of luck) that he truly started to worry.

Granted, he wasn't surprised to hear this sort of nonsense from Sigrun. Her education was abysmal, and her attention span worse; small wonder she couldn't do even the simple arithmetic required to convert distance on a map and speed of travel to projected time on the road. Tuuri, though? Mikkel knew that she ought to know better; of all of their crewmates, she was the one who was supposed to be on his level intellectually, the only other person not hired for raw muscle or vague spiritual mumbo-jumbo, but someone who dealt with ideas, numbers, facts. Either she wasn't worth even the pittance their employers were paying her as a skald… or she was just that afraid of contradicting Sigrun.

The implications of either possibility were worrying—not to mention potentially lethal.

Sigrun was many things, not all of them flattering, but abusive was not one of them. In this world, an officer who mistreated her subordinates didn't live long enough to make captain. There was no reason whatsoever for anyone not a literal troll to be as frightened of her as Tuuri seemed to be. Or maybe Tuuri had a bit of a crush? As amusing as that possibility was (oh the fun he could have if she knew that he knew), it was no less serious if Tuuri was letting her crush interfere with her duty.

That she seemed determined to either forget or endlessly deny her mistake made things far worse. By the time they finally began to near Odense, Mikkel had been unable to deny it any longer:

Something was seriously wrong with Tuuri. The only question was what.

That night, Mikkel thought back to her file, which he'd memorized (along with everyone else's) before most of them had even met. 21 years old, Finnish nationality, fluent in three languages. Well-educated, especially by the standards of her native country. Resident of the Keuruu military base; employed for eight years as a skald and six as a mechanic. No criminal history; no known disabilities. Not immune.

Ah. There it was. Birthplace: Saimaa.

She had abandoned her native home, at the age of 13 or younger, in favor of settling in a heavily fortified military base. Why? Given her age at the time, it had probably not been of her own volition. Indeed, a brief recollection of her cousin's file confirmed that they had left together.

"Do you have any other family?" he ventured one day.

"No, just Onni and Lalli."

Though she spoke cheerfully enough, her answer provided yet another piece of the puzzle that Mikkel was slowly making of her life: she had made no mention of any parents.

"Tuuri." Sigrun and Emil were out in the field and Lalli was asleep, and Reynir wouldn't understand the Scandinavian languages they spoke between themselves. "What happened at Saimaa?"

She froze. Then, however, she smiled, that cheerful mask she wore slipping back into place.

"We left."

"I assume there was a reason."

The only answer she gave was a shrug.

"Tuuri."

"It happened a long time ago. We're fine now."

"Clearly you are not." She bit her lip, but he forged ahead mercilessly. "Whatever it is, you're not going to be able to run from it forever."

She shrugged again, before loading another piece of paper into her typewriter.

He tried another tack. "Do you think that getting yourself off the hook in the immediate present isn't going to have any long-term consequences? To tell us a two week trip would last a couple of days—"

"I did not say that."

"No. You only allowed Sigrun to continue with her folly even though you knew better, or should have." Here he paused to let the meaning of his words sink in. "I've never known Sigrun to lay blame on anyone for circumstances outside of their control. Why are you so afraid to correct her?"

"I'm not afraid."

"Then what?"

Another shrug.

"What happened in Saimaa?"

"It's none of your business, okay?"

"It is my business to look after the health of everyone on this team. Even more so when your actions start to endanger the crew."

The only answer that greeted him was silence.

"Okay. I can't force you to talk if you don't want to. But know that if I catch you allowing misinformation to spread again, I'm going to correct you, whoever may hear." On his way out the door, however, he paused again. "Tuuri. Whatever it is, you're going to have to face it sometime. The sooner you accept that, the easier it's going to be."

* * *

 **A/N:** This one stems from another comments section discussion. Also, I'm never going to be able to unsee Mikkel and Tuuri as surrogate siblings now. I could very easily see them filling that role for each other while their actual siblings are elsewhere.


	74. Are you challenging me?

**Prompt:** Are you challenging me?

 **Characters:** Sigrun

* * *

As everyone in Dalsnes quickly learned, the easiest way to get Sigrun to do something was to tell her she shouldn't do it—or, even more effectively, that she _couldn't_. It was universally agreed that her parents and Trond were to blame.

"Sigrun? Did you pick up your room like your mother asked you to?"

"Um… no?"

He sighed. "It's fine. After all, not everyone is strong enough to move all of those toys…"

"I am too strong enough." He only smiled and nodded, with an air of indulging a child's whims that Sigrun had learned to see through several years ago. "I'll prove it!" Ten minutes later, her room was cleaner than three days of first requests and then orders had managed to get it.

"Literacy is important, Sigrun. We're not asking you to become an academic, but you at least need to know how to write."

"But books are so _boring_. Why would I write anything when I could just _say_ it?"

"Sometimes it's important to have a record of your words, so that you and other people can remember what you said."

"If it's really that important, they should remember it _anyway_."

"Yes, but this way it can be passed on to so many _other_ people." When her daughter still looked rebellious, she added, "Though, I suppose if you don't feel up to the task, you could always get someone else to do it for you. After all, most of the other people you'll be working with ought to be able to read and write well enough…"

"But I don't want them to do everything _for_ me!" She snatched up a pen. "How do I hold it again?"

Of course, after she enlisted, her commanding officer was not afraid of using this tactic either.

"Private Eide, are you really not strong enough to make a ten-kilometer run?"

"Private Eide, your aim is atrocious. Maybe you should hand your gun to someone else so you don't waste any more bullets."

"Private Eide, what happened to being able to kill a troll with your bare hands? Perhaps you would like me to finish it off for you?"

"We have a bit of a problem," Mikkel confessed to Torbjörn during a radio call, many years down the road.

"Oh no!" Six, by his side, immediately dug her fingers into her hair. "Did you lose the books? Did someone die? Is there a serious injury? Did the tank break down? Is—"

"Not that serious." Mikkel didn't even try to conceal the fact that he was rolling his eyes. "Our food supply—"

"I thought you were doing fine," Torbjörn protested. "On short commons, maybe but between the supplies that we sent you and hunting…"

"We would be. We're only experiencing the _slight_ problem that our captain doesn't like to eat vegetables. She'll dump them out of her bowl if I don't watch her. Aside from the waste, there's also the matter of scurvy…"

Trond, who happened at that moment to be walking by, tapped Torbjörn on the shoulder. "Give me the radio."

* * *

"Carrot stew _again?_ Don't you have anything better to cook?"

"No."

"Argh, fine! Just give me the slop so I can eat already."

"I never would have thought you'd have such a tender stomach, Sigrun. Though I suppose that if vegetables upset your delicate constitution _that_ much, it's possible you might have some serious food allergies…"

"What? I am _not_ too wimpy to eat vegetables! I just don't like them."

Mikkel shrugged. "Allergies are nothing to be ashamed of, Sigrun. It only means you can't handle certain foods. Though if you're _sure_ you don't want me to check whether you're allergic to something…"

"Real warriors don't _have_ allergies!" She shoved a spoonful into her mouth just to prove her point. "Shee?" Her speech came out distorted due to the fact that she was speaking around a mouthful of carrot. "If I can handle trolls, I can handle vegetables."

"If you say so." He turned away, hiding his smirk under the guise of stirring the pot.

A country away, Trond was smirking as well.


	75. Mirror

**Prompt:** Mirror

 **Characters:** Sigrun

 **Warnings:** Some nonsexual nudity

 **Continuity:** Ties into "Misfortune", "Time Is Running Out", and "No Way Out". No familiarity is necessary for comprehension.

* * *

It wasn't something that she did often anymore. Once a year, at the end of Hunting season (provided that she was sufficiently healthy), was enough. Just to remind herself of the reasons behind the sacrifices she'd made.

Her knife hit the ground with a clank when she let her clothes drop to the floor. Nobody went unarmed in Dalnes, whether soldier or civilian. Once she'd kicked the bundle of cloth to the side, she turned her attention to the floor-length mirror in front of her, and to her reflection in it.

The mirror had belonged to her great-grandmother. Her father had given it to her when she was a child, saying with a laugh that neither he nor her grandfather had ever found any use for it, so he might as well pass it on to someone who would enjoy it—as if he thought that just because she was a girl, she always had to be looking at herself! At the time, Sigrun had spent all of her time determinedly ignoring the thing, even though it had been placed directly in her room.

In the end, however, she'd found a use for it after all.

The mass of knotted flesh was still there on her left side, running from the base of her ribcage all the way down to her hipbone. That one had been her first; a troll had got its talons on her and thrown her a good five meters until she'd fetched up against a rock, but one of its claws had got into her even before she'd been sent flying airborne, slicing her open so badly it had taken her months to recover. She'd been fifteen.

The bite marks in her calf, she owed to a beast that had retaliated with extreme prejudice when Sigrun had tried to boot it to death, which as it turned out worked a lot better for small vermin beasts than for something that had once been some sort of extremely large dog. She'd healed, but had walked with a limp for the rest of the summer.

The matching round marks on the top and bottom of her _other_ foot were far less awesome, and far more embarrassing. That had been a perfectly stupid, mundane, and so-not-awesome accident that had happened when she'd been a second lieutenant traipsing through some ruins with her team, and had stepped on a rusty nail. That one had gone straight through the bottom of her boot and straight back out through the top, and had put her on crutches for a lot longer than she would have liked. Still, the scar remained, and Sigrun continued to acknowledge it year after year. It was one she'd received in the line of duty, after all.

A matched set of five punctures in her back: not as long as some of the others, but these had gone deep. Ambush in Sweden. She'd lost two of her friends, and hadn't even been able to attend the funerals because she'd been hurt too badly herself.

Three parallel pale stripes started at her right shoulder and the base of her neck, wrapping down across her collarbones before finally ending on the other side of her chest, courtesy of the three bear Beasts that had breached the borders of Dalsnes shortly after she'd made Captain. _That_ one had nearly killed her, so she supposed it was only fitting that the attack was the source of her most spectacular scars.

This year, she even had a new one: the half dozen or so short gashes on her left arm, earned when she'd thrown her own limb between an attacking troll and a non-immune civilian. These were still beautifully discolored, only recently healed, Mikkel's poor stitchwork only serving to make them all the more gnarly. She'd have to make sure to tell that story to her friends, once she got an opportunity.

One didn't kill trolls for a living and come out unscathed. The marks she bore were the marks of a survivor, of someone who'd brushed with death again and again and kept coming out alive. Nobody could be lucky forever, though. One of these days, she wasn't going to make it back.

Tragic, she'd once overheard in a discussion among the village elders when she'd been a very young girl, people who were old enough to remember a life in the Old World. Tragic, that such a vivacious young girl would grow up to have her beauty marred by battle scars, would be denied the opportunity of her natural potential and likely die young after a life of violence.

Funny. Sign had never felt that her life was going to waste.

As far as she was concerned, she was exactly where she needed to be, doing exactly what she was meant to do. Better to die young after having lived well than to go in one's sleep after a life wasted doing nothing.

Sigrun turned the mirror around and covered it for one more year before putting on her clothes.

* * *

 **A/N:** I headcanon that Sigrun has a massive collection of nasty battle scars, and I will take this headcanon kicking and screaming to my grave unless proven otherwise by Word of Minna, and possibly not even then. Not least because I would _love_ to see a woman for once who has scars of the "heroic" variety, as opposed to "Oh no it messes up her _appearance?_ This is the worst kind of tragedy! The worst I say!"

This chapter also ties into something else I see quite frequently in popular media, which really bugs me a lot. Almost every time a female character is raised as a boy or allowed to adopt a more masculine lifestyle, it's always treated in-universe as "tragic" (this word was even used directly in _The Hidden Fortress_ ) - at the very least, there's always the obligatory "let's rediscover traditional femininity and how to be a lady and learn how wonderful it is" chapter (I'm looking at _you_ , Tamora Pierce).

I understand why some girls would need to see this. I understand that there are a lot of women out there who are utterly sick of being made to feel as if they have to sacrifice their femininity in order to be taken seriously in the professional world. I can sympathize, but... this particular storyline was always utterly alien to me and has always rubbed me the wrong way on a personal level, because I hardly ever see any acknowledgement that there are also women out there who don't _want_ to be feminine, at least not in the popularly understood traditional sense. This is a large part of why seeing a character like Sigrun made me _so goddamn happy_ , because it was finally that moment of 'OMG she's so awesome and _where have you been all my life?_ '

As long as I'm doing the philosophical rambling, I'm going to bring up another movie I watched, _Princess Kaguya_. Seeing a girl who'd previously been living happily in the country being forced into the restrictive lifestyle of a Japanese noblewoman with no acknowledgement of what _she_ wanted had a strong visceral effect on me, and was an unprecedented reminder of why I eventually rejected femininity so violently. Not only did I never want it in the first place, but I associate it with being trapped, locked up, silenced. Did any of this happen to me personally? No. Was I very much aware of it on a cultural level? Oh Hel yes.

I saw Princess Kaguya's life as tragic in a way that I never saw Sigrun's life as tragic, regardless of the fact that more traditional elements may see it as such. Yes, she's been hurt. Yes, she's poorly educated. Also, let's face it - she's probably not going to make it to old age. Yet I cannot, _cannot_ , pity her or see her life as tragic, because she's in it by her own choice, she knows the risks, and she's doing _exactly what she wants to do_. Just like _I_ always wanted to do.

*looks at sheer amount of soul-baring I just did*

*runs and hides*


	76. Sexy

**Prompt:** Sexy

 **Characters:** Emil, Sigrun

 **Continuity:** Same continuity as "Kick in the Head" and "Hold My Hand"

* * *

"So what do you think?"

"It's…" Honestly "primitive" was the first thing that came to mind, but he bit down on his tongue before the word could come out. Emil was a horrible liar, though, and it took him a moment to seek out a description that was honest, but didn't risk insulting his captain. "…rustic?" he settled on at last.

"It's great, isn't it?" Sigrun stretched her arms above her head until her joints cracked, before placing her hands on her hips and gazing around with an air of satisfaction. "Good old mountains, and none of that mamby-pamby coddling you Swedes call 'progress'."

Personally, Emil could have done with a few more creature comforts and a few less mountains. For all Sigrun was born and bred to this environment, _he_ was used to something a lot more civilized (What if he got hurt? What kind of so-called Norwegian "medicine" would he be subjected to?)—not to mention that while he'd certainly come out of the Silent World in much better shape than he'd been in when he'd gone in, they'd still been traipsing through flat Denmark, not dragging themselves up and down slopes all day, and his legs were _killing_ him.

Even so, Sigrun had gotten him out of a really bad situation, and the very least Emil could do was be grateful for her help. However primitive… er, _rustic_ … her hometown was, at least it wasn't the army base in Mora. Emil would rather die than go back there—if Sigrun hadn't gotten him out, he might actually _have_ died. So yes, he was grateful.

…still, all the gratitude in the world wouldn't change the fact that Dalsnes was going to take a lot of getting used to.

A lot of the roads consisted of little more than packed dirt, and the entire village stank of livestock. On their way to the base, they passed a woman hauling a pig down the street as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

"That's a nice fat on, Auda!" Sigrun called to her while Emil tried to edge around without stepping in any of the pig's… _leavings_.

"Don't even think about it," Auda shot back with a grin. "This one is for a _family_ affair. Though…" She peered around at Emil, looking him up and down with the uncanny air of examining a prize stallion, and he fought the urge to clap a hand self-consciously over the ugly scars on his face. "Lend me _him_ for a night and I'll let you have your pick of the rest. That one's way too young for you anyway." There was now a distinctly predatory gleam in her eyes.

"Sorry, but that's a no can do." Sigrun's arm snaked around his shoulders, pulling him against her side, and in spite of the uncomfortable closeness Emil breathed a quiet sigh of relief. "You want a man, you're gonna have to win him yourself."

"Aw." She made no further protest, however, and the two women waved to each other as they parted ways.

"Thanks," Emil whispered once he was sure that Auda was out of earshot.

Sigrun snorted. "What, you think I'd sell out my right-hand warrior for a bit of pork? Even if it _did_ look like really good pork," she added wistfully, looking in the direction that Auda had gone with the pig.

"So what now?" he asked hastily, before Sigrun could decide that her "right-hand warrior" was worth the value of a pork chop after all.

"Now?" She hefted her bag over her shoulder. "Dump your stuff in the barracks and meet me at the Troll's Nest. We've had a long trip, I think we deserve a bit of downtime."

The Troll's Nest, as it turned out, was a tavern, and he breathed another sigh of relief as he pushed through the doors—he hadn't been looking forward to learning Sigrun's idea of "downtime," but it seemed as if she only wanted to take him out drinking. By Sigrun's standards, that was positively _tame_.

She wasn't hard to spot: the place was nearly empty at this hour, and even in Dalsnes a tall redhead would stand out. Immediately she grinned at him, and waved him forward toward the bar.

"So what's your poison?" she asked as soon as Emil had settled himself on the stood next to her.

"Um, I think I'll just have—"

"Men? Women? Both?" She waggled an eyebrow suggestively. "Both at once?"

A few seconds passed before it fully hit him what his _commanding officer_ had just asked him, and Emil could only answer her in stammers. "Bwuh? I-I mean, I don't really…"

"Not sure yet?" Sigrun gave him an encouraging pat on the shoulder. "That's fine too. You're still young, got plenty of time to figure it out. You ever picked someone up in a bar before?" Without looking, she snapped her fingers at the bartender, who set a tall mug in front of him without a word. Emil somehow managed to down half of its contents in one go.

"I'll take that as a no." Once more, she patted his back. "Don't worry, you'll do fine. You've got some nice assets to show off, after all."

Well, Emil couldn't exactly argue with _that_. From his smooth skin to his blue eyes to his perfect golden hair, he didn't doubt that even these Norwegians would recognize true beauty when they saw it. It was only a shame about those hideous…

"Man, I'm jealous." Sigrun peered at his face a moment before going back to her own drink. "Scars like yours, all nice and out in the open… _I_ don't have any I can show to the general public without getting really, _really_ cold."

Emil promptly choked on his beer. "You mean you actually _want_ people to see your scars?" He didn't even try to keep the incredulity from his voice.

"Of course! Scars mean you're a great warrior." She turned her attention back to Emil with a snap. "See, the trick is to show it off without actually _looking_ like you're showing it off. That just makes you look desperate. _You've_ got it easy." She lightly tapped his face before turning back to her own beer, as her voice shifted to a grumble. "They always get _me_ in places that are so hard to show…"

As they'd talked, the other customers had slowly started to trickle in, and Emil turned back to his beer with an impending sense of dread. She wasn't actually expecting him to _hook up_ with any of these people, was she?

"Sigrun! Nice to see you back!" His captain was now having an exchange with a man who'd just walk in, and Emil couldn't entirely tell whether it was friendly or an impending brawl, due to the sheer number of punches and slaps that were being exchanged. "Kill anything over in Sweden?"

"Oh yeah, there was one that came at me right when I'd barely stepped off the boat…"

Emil wasn't sure whether he should feel relieved or left out. Sure, he hadn't actually _wanted_ whatever it was Sigrun had had in mind for him, but wasn't he supposed to be her…

"…right hand warrior!" Immediately he was the attention of everyone within hearing distance, and was soon being pummeled with backslaps and questions about his scars alike.

* * *

Several hours later, Emil was trying to remember the location of the barracks through the fog in his eyes, the pounding in his head, and the weight on his shoulder of someone significantly taller than he was.

"Washn't that the besht?" Sigrun slurred. At least she was still capable of walking—not in any way _steadily_ , but at least _walking_. Emil didn't think he'd have been able to carry her if she'd managed to drink herself _that_ far under the table.

"Is everybody in Norway crazy?" he answered with a weary sigh. She probably wouldn't remember it in the morning anyway. Even if she did, Emil somehow didn't think she would take _that_ much offense. Mikkel had called her crazy at least five times a day and she'd taken it as a _compliment_."

"Ish everybody in Shweden such a shtick-in-the-mud?" She staggered, and Emil froze, afraid that she was about to keel over face-first into the mud right then and there, but somehow she managed to keep her feet. "Don't even know how to have a good time…" Her hand flapped in a way that was probably intended as a friendly punch, but which missed by a good ten centimeters. "But at leasht we got shome action, amirite?"

By which she meant, _she'd_ gotten some action. At first opportunity (which had occurred right around the time when she'd switched from telling the others how Emil had killed three trolls with his _face_ to describing how she'd bodily thrown herself between a helpless Icelander and a troll that was about to rip his head off), he'd snuck away and parked himself in the nearest shady corner to finish his _one_ beer and watch Sigrun impress her harem. This had continued right up until closing time, the bartender had thrown them out, Emil had realized he had no idea how to get back to the barracks, and Sigrun was too inebriated to give him a clear answer.

When he finally did manage to follow the slurred directions he could get out of her in between her drunken bragging, Emil was sure that the night was more than halfway over—closer to three-quarters of the way, knowing his luck. Still, he stopped by the women's barracks first, gratefully dumping Sigrun in her bed, where she rolled over onto her stomach and was instantly asleep with a smile on her face. Emil shook his head as he made his way back to his own much longed-for bed.

This certainly wasn't what he'd had in mind, when Sigrun had told him she'd gotten him a job. But Emil had to admit, as he drifted off to sleep, that somehow, he felt a whole lot better—as if he were finally managing to put what had happened in Sweden behind him. Dalsnes was still going to take some getting used to, but now he was sure that he would, in time.

Maybe someday, he'd even learn how to flirt.


	77. Test

**Prompt:** Test

 **Characters:** Mikkel, Reynir

* * *

"Hmmm." Mikkel looked intently at the Icelander in front of him, who was fidgeting his hands nervously.

"I don't think I need to explain to you that we're in the middle of the Silent World. Even the slightest mistake could mean the difference between life and death."

Reynir nodded, tugging at his braid. "I know that. I mean—that's why I want to help! Me ending up here was a mistake, maybe if I could—"

"Thank you, there is no need for that." Reynir shut his mouth with a sigh. "What I'm saying," Mikkel continued, "is that you mustn't underestimate the importance of doing any of this _right_ —which is why I need to know whether or not you're competent before I can trust you with any of it."

"I… see." Reynir let his head droop, looking like nothing so much as a kicked puppy.

This wouldn't do. This was _Reynir_ ; if he got depressed, he was liable to drag the whole crew down with him.

"Though…" Mikkel took a moment to pretend to ponder. "I suppose there is _one_ thing you could help me with."

"Yes?" Immediately Reynir snapped to attention. "Whatever it is, I promise I won't let you down!"

"Well, I seem to have misplaced my left-handed sewing kit. If you would be so kind as to go and find it for me…"

 _There, that ought to keep him out of my hair for a while_ , he thought with satisfaction as Reynir scampered back into the tank. _Left-handed sewing kit, indeed. He's nearly as gullible as Emil._

Thus it was to his immense surprise that Reynir returned not half an hour later with a left-handed sewing kit in hand.

"Sorry I took so long," he panted as he trotted up to Mikkel and presented his finding. "I had to look all over the tank…" At last he took in Mikkel's expression of stunned disbelief. "Is this the wrong one?" he asked anxiously.

"No. No, this is fine." As a matter of fact, it was perfect. He didn't know how Reynir had done this impossible thing, but somehow, there it was, sitting right there in his hand: something that could never exist in any sane world.

Several days later, he noticed that Tuuri's family photo, the one with the cracked frame, had been fixed.

"Oh yeah, Reynir did that," she said when Mikkel asked. "I was trying to get him out of my hair while I worked, so I told him he could try fixing the frame if he wanted. I didn't actually think he'd be able to do it, of course, but what do you know, he brought it back to me the next morning, good as new!"

" _How_ could he have repaired a picture frame?" Mikkel demanded; he wasn't going to let this go _that_ easily. "He doesn't have any of the right supplies."

"Well, he _did_ mention once that he thinks he's a mage." Tuuri shrugged with one shoulder before turning back to her typewriter. "Maybe he figured out a bit of magic?"

Finns and their superstitions. Mikkel didn't even grace that with an answer before grudgingly going back to his own work.

…his boring, unglamorous, repetitive, completely _thankless_ work.

"Vegetables _again?_ " Sigrun sniffed disdainfully before letting her dinner fall from the spoon and back into her bowl. "Can't you cook _anything_ else?"

"We don't _have_ anything else," Mikkel informed her for the umpteenth time before a tugging on his sleeve distracted him.

"What's she saying?" Reynir asked, looking at Sigrun with the expression of cowed intimidation that seemed to grace his face whenever the captain was unhappy. "She seems really upset…"

"She's just whining about the food," he said irritably before switching back to Danish. "Sigrun, if you try to dump that in the bushes again I'm not giving you any tomorrow."

This exchange quickly devolved into their usual bickering, leaving the others to quietly slink away unnoticed.

"Is there anything I can do to help?" Reynir asked, timidly, as Mikkel returned inside to do the dishes after their fight had burnt itself out.

"Sigrun is going to have to grow up someday," he responded, still more irked than he would have liked to admit, as he plunged his arms under the suds. "Let her figure out for herself that fresh meat isn't going to magically appear in the middle of the Silent World just because _she_ wants it."

When Mikkel stepped outside the next morning to see a fat, healthy steer tethered to a tree right outside of their tank, he promptly decided he was going to stop asking questions.


	78. Drink

**Prompt:** Drink

 **Characters:** The main cast

* * *

On the day of her enlistment, they also let her have her first glass of ceremonial mead.

Sigrun was hardly a stranger to alcohol, of course. Her parents had been letting her sip at the stuff ever since she'd been old enough to sit up at the table—but that had been weak to begin with and watered down a good deal more.

The stuff in the goblet in front of her now was no such thing. Cautiously, she leaned forward and sniffed. The scent was rich and heady, golden like a fertile summer's day, and even a sniff of the vapors was enough to make her feel vaguely lightheaded.

"Well what are you waiting for?" one of the other privates at her table taunted. "You killed a troll today and you're afraid of a drink?"

Seized by a surge of boldness, Sigrun lurched forward, grabbed the goblet in both hands, brought it to her lips, and drank the rich sweet stuff straight down until there was none left.

* * *

Their first night in Keuruu after he and Tuuri had been released from quarantine, Onni found that in celebration of their arrival, some enterprising officer had bought them not water, but beer.

Lalli, when he tasted it, made a face and pushed his mug away. Tuuri took one sip and immediately burst into tears.

Nobody thought too harshly of it when Onni asked them to bring some water for the kids. Still, he was careful not to let his own distaste show as he held Tuuri close against his side while slowly sipping the awful stuff out of the mug in front of him.

* * *

"What's going on here?"

Emil looked at the full glass in front of him with more than a little bit of suspicion. Wine was far dearer than even the fruit juice it was made from, and while several years ago it had been something his family could easily afford, those days were long since over. Of course Uncle Torbjörn and Aunt Siv _would_ have a bottle or three tucked away _somewhere_ , but they wouldn't be giving it away that easily—especially not when they'd led him to believe they were only asking him to pay a visit during his leave.

"How has your time with the Cleansers been?" Uncle Torbjörn asked, ignoring his question.

 _Fine_ , he wanted to say. He never got stuck with the most mundane jobs. He hadn't missed out on promotions. He _certainly_ wasn't being bullied.

"…not what I expected," was what came out instead.

Uncle Torbjörn smiled. "We have something that may help you. Now, if you'll just hear us out…"

Emil listened. He pondered. He considered the potential dangers, and balanced them against the world-shattering benefits to his career.

Aunt Siv pushed the glass toward him. Gingerly, Emil reached out and curled his fingers around the stem.

* * *

They were caught up in a surge of camera flashes the moment they disembarked from the ship.

Of course, he'd expected nothing less for the others. Sigrun grinned and waved and rolled up her sleeves to show off her battle scars. Emil answered reporters' questions and posed for as many pictures as they wanted to take. Mikkel crossed his arms and looked intimidating. When Lalli wasn't hiding belowdecks, he spent most of his time hiding behind Mikkel's bulk.

Reynir didn't see much of this, of course, having been hustled straight to a quarantine cell almost the second he set foot on the ship. To his surprise, however, reporters came to talk to him even there, barraging him with questions about how he'd ended up out there in the first place and what it was like to be a civilian trapped in the middle of the Silent World. He stammered his way through most of the answers.

After they'd disembarked, the team had one last night together before they parted ways. Full of generosity with their black market money, their backers had offered to take them out and buy them a round of drinks.

When Reynir would have backed off and let the _official_ team have their good time, Sigrun had him by the wrist and Tuuri was pushing him along by the opposite shoulder. "Just go with it," Mikkel suggested when he found himself seated in front of a crude wooden bar, a distressingly tall mug in front of him.

Cautiously, he lifted it and tried a few sips—only to immediately start coughing. Sigrun gave a hearty laugh and a heartier slam on the back. Mikkel shook his head and handed Reynir a glass of water.

* * *

"So how did it go?"

"As well as can be expected." Mikkel turned the shot glass absently between him thumb and forefinger, allowing his eyes to drift around the room in search of potential eavesdroppers. Torbjörn and Siv had long since left, taking Emil with them; Tuuri and her cousin had gone with Onni. Sigrun was out cold, slumped forward in her seat with a line of drool running from her mouth to the bar; Reynir, after several unsuccessful attempts to heave her to her feet, had finally taken Mikkel's word that he would make sure she safely got to her boat the next morning, and left for the room that he was renting upstairs. Not that he could have understood this exchange even if he had been present.

"And none of them suspects?"

"Not that I'm aware of. Assuming we get funding for another mission, I'll be able to carry on just like we planned."

"We're going to get funding. The only thing _you_ need to worry about is playing the part you've been assigned."

Once more, he turned to look at Sigrun—she murmured something in her sleep and rolled over so her forehead was pressed against the top of the bar, but still did not wake. "It won't bring any harm to anyone else on the crew?" In spite of himself, Mikkel had grown rather fond of the group of misfits to which he'd been assigned.

"Have we given you reason to doubt us yet?"

"I suppose not." He lifted his shot glass. The other did the same.

By the time Mikkel had finished downing its contents, he was alone in the bar. To be honest, he had not expected anything less. With a sigh, he hefted Sigrun (who promptly flung an arm over his shoulder as if she thought he was some sort of pillow), and hoped that he wasn't about to be forced to choose between the job that was now the only path open to him, and the welfare of the first group of friends he'd had in a long, long time.


	79. Starvation

**Prompt:** Starvation

 **Characters:** Reynir

* * *

Reynir took a good, long look around the pastures in which he'd spent most of his life.

He'd tasted magic. For the first time since he'd been born, he'd done something that was not only useful, but uniquely _him_.

This was his home. He'd been born here, played here, had his first memories of sheep and dogs and of playing with his siblings in the hay…

The thought struck him unexpectedly as he looked out the window of the carriage at the gently rolling hills and the flocks that they hosted. After the first instinctive reaction to push it away and never let it near him again, Reynir allowed himself to consider it, turning it over and over in his mind in the way he'd once turned a skein of wool in his hands.

He couldn't go back.

Reynir had always known that he'd never be able to do the sorts of things that his brothers and sisters did, and while he'd once watched their lives with an ever increasing envy, he'd never harbored any resentment toward them. That they were immune and he wasn't was no fault of theirs, or of his. It just was. If he _had_ been completely ordinary… well, there were certainly worse ways to spend one's life than herding sheep.

That was the problem, though. The gods had blessed him, in spite of his poor treatment of them. It seemed somehow wrong to let that blessing go to waste.

His parents had lied to him. His fists clenched in his lap at the thought. Reynir knew enough now to be aware that the tale they'd been feeding him for years about non-immune people not being allowed to leave the country had been of their own devising, a fiction intended to keep him at home. Might they have lied to him about other things as well?

What if they'd known all along that he was a mage?

The thoughts were coming at him now thick as flies, bringing with them so many regrets and what-ifs and might-have-beens. What if he'd gone to the Academy? What if he'd come to the mission trained, able to make a proper _galdrastafur_ and reach his own gods instead of hasty experimentation and cobbled-together lessons over the radio from a mage of a different tradition? Most importantly, though: _Why?_

They might never have lived like Old Worlders, but his parents were not exactly poor either; it wasn't as if they couldn't have hired someone to help with the sheep, if all of the children had left. Even so, he wasn't a worker under some contract; he was their child! It was _his_ life!

It took Reynir another moment to recognize the emotion now boiling in his stomach. It was anger.

Catching himself, he took a deep breath and let it go, knowing it wouldn't help. What was done was done. He didn't understand what had motivated his parents, and maybe he never would. He was never going to know what _might_ have happened, if the past had been different. His dreams had always showed him the future, so it was the future he was going to focus on now.

Even as he pushed open the door, Reynir knew what he had to do.

"Mom, Dad," he said as they hugged him, but he forced himself not to stop there. "I love you… but I can't stay."

* * *

 **A/N:** I was feeling more than a little melancholy when I wrote this. That whole 'Wait a minute what am I _doing_ with my life' crisis. I _might_ have spent the whole day working on my thesis.


	80. Words

**Prompt:** Words

 **Characters:** Sigrun, Mikkel

* * *

The Old World was _gone_. It was in the here and now that people lived and died.

The inability to understand this was one of the (many, many) reasons the Danes had floundered so badly in their reclamation, even in the face of Norway's success. Words on paper couldn't tell you how to not panic if you walked into a troll nest. Words on paper wouldn't teach you how to juggle a scout, a mage, and the ordinary footsoldiers under your command, lead your crew around the worst sorts of deathtraps, and still keep everyone in one piece.

Words on paper _might_ help you keep track of who on your crew was in danger of mutinying, but really, a good officer ought to be able to do that _anyway_. In that case, the only thing the words did was make sure the would-be mutinists _knew_ you had your eye on them. The real stuff, the stuff that _mattered?_ The only way to learn that was out in the field.

So she was on a mission to go find more words on paper and bring them back; so what? She was a soldier; she fulfilled the mission she was given. It was nothing to _her_ if any of the Old World junk they were looting was of use to her personally, as long as she and everyone else on her team were coming back alive at the end of the day. The way Sigrun understood it, there were plenty of civilians back in Sweden and Denmark who'd be willing to pay handsomely for what they found, and good for them. They could have their words; she could have her mission and her vacation, her country and the lives of her crew.

Some of her subordinates liked the words. When Tuuri wasn't driving or manning the radio she was constantly type-type-typing away, keeping a record of their _official_ mission and fulfilling her love of learning on the way. Well, she was a brainiac, and not immune; no need to judge her for that, not everyone could be as awesome as Sigrun, after all. Nearly all of Mikkel's time was spent cooking, cleaning, or patching someone up, but when he wasn't doing that, he could hardly be seen without a book in his hands. Sigrun didn't _get_ him; the little fuzz-head was one thing, but a man as strong as Mikkel could surely be doing something so much more fun with his time. Instead, he seemed content to be used as a pack-horse.

Oh yes, and read.

"So what do you _see_ in that?" she could not help but ask one night, after he'd washed the dishes, folded his apron, and immediately picked up a book. She'd been sharpening her dagger.

Mikkel had been cracking open the pages to the piece of torn paper he'd been using as a bookmark, a small private smile on his face, but now gently closed it again, his expression returning to its normal bored neutrality. "Do you ever think about the past, Sigrun?"

"What's there to think about?" She gave the blade one last go-over before wiping it clean (it could now scrape the fine hairs from her forearm with the lightest touch, and she pronounced herself satisfied) and tucking it back into its sheath. "The Rash came. A lot of Old Worlders died." She shrugged. "Not a whole lot is going to change that now, so why wallow in it?"

He cringed—involuntarily, but she still caught it. "You may have a point there." Sigrun was opening her mouth to say of course she did, but Mikkel was still talking. "What about the future, then?"

"Don't know what's going to happen there, either. Anyway I can't afford to dwell on that either." Mikkel looked a question at her, one eyebrow cocked.

Of course. Physically, he was so big and imposing that it was easy to forget he wasn't a fighter—he wouldn't know, not the way that she did. "You're out in the field, you've got to have your mind on where you _are_. You're thinking about your dinner, or that cute girl waiting for you back home, or what you want to do on your next leave, you're dead." The rest, she thought, shouldn't need to be said: Sigrun was still alive.

The emotion that flashed across his face at those words surprised her. It took her a moment to place it as sorrow.

Was the mutinist medic actually feeling _bad_ for her?

It was so absurd it was almost funny, and Sigrun had to fight not to laugh. She was just opening her mouth to say something to correct him— _Hey big guy, don't feel bad, I'm good and gods I'd be bored out of my skull if I had to sit at some dumb desk job_ —when Mikkel spoke again.

"What if it wasn't your future, but the future of the entire Known World?

"Oh yeah, that cure." Well, she had to grant that words might be good for _something_. "Hey, all I'm doing is making sure it gets back to civilization. It's up to _you_ to figure out what to do with it." She flopped back down onto her bed.

"I suppose it takes all types." She saw another small smile on Mikkel before he stood, no doubt to go find somewhere quieter. "After all, people like me wouldn't even be able to get our dull, boring books without people like you."

"Damn straight." Sigrun flopped down onto her bunk with a yawn. "Don't think I'd know what to do with myself if I didn't have at least a few people to protect who shouldn't be allowed anywhere near a battlefield."

"Ah well, I do what I can. Sleep well, Captain."

"Night, mutinist."

He even turned the lights off on his way out.


	81. Pen and Paper

**Prompt:** Pen and Paper

 **Characters:** Reynir

* * *

"Hey Tuuri, can I borrow some of that paper?"

"Huh? Oh, sure." Tuuri pushed a stack of papers toward him. It was a very short stack. "Just use it sparingly, okay? I've got a limited supply here." She grinned at him through her mask.

"Oh, uh… s-sure!"

Reynir _thought_ he could remember what the rune looked like. As it turned out, it took him a few tries to get it right.

"I'm sorry," he apologized over and over again, before he remembered the remonstrance Onni had given him and what Sigrun had said (at least, according to Mikkel) about the gods hating weaklings. Then he almost apologized for apologizing, and caught himself just in time.

"Why did the gods bless _me?_ " he wondered out loud as he looked at the finished result, which he'd drawn to the best of his memory, of the stave that they used in Iceland to keep sheep from straying. "Not that I was asking you not to!" he added hastily, looking up at the ceiling. "Actually your blessing would be really helpful right about now."

"Is he out of his mind or is he just… 'praying' again?" Sigrun asked as she walked past, Mikkel following her like a packhorse with a haversack full of books over each shoulder.

"The latter."

"Well tell him to go outside and do it properly! Oh yeah, and an animal sacrifice wouldn't hurt either."

Before she had even finished speaking, Kitty was hiding under the nearest available bunk.

The first time he attempted to alter it, the paper slipped out of his hands and burned into the floor of the tank, and Reynir frantically stomped it out before hastily dragging over some bedding to cover it.

"What was that?" Tuuri asked, poking her head out of the office with an armful of paper. "I thought I smelled smoke."

"Ah… nothing. It was nothing."

It was just as well that Reynir started doing his experiments outside after that, because the second time ended in a puff of noxious-smelling smoke, leaving Reynir to hastily stomp the bit of paper into the mud while his eyes streamed and he coughed like he'd just tried to swallow a frog.

"Is Mikkel cooking again?" Sigrun asked, raising her head from where she was cleaning her gun.

"I think Emil's just practicing with his flamethrower," Mikkel answered from where he was hanging up the laundry a few paces away.

 _Well, tenth time's the charm_ , he thought as he sketched out his latest idea on one of the last scraps of paper he had managed to salvage.

He shouldn't feel guilty about this, he told himself. Mikkel had said the book was junk anyway. Besides, he'd only taken out a single, blank page right at the end. Surely their lives were worth losing a bit of money… right?

Finished, Reynir set it in front of him. He held his breath.

The rune didn't catch on fire… nor did it fly, or start growing roots, or mold to whatever surface he had placed it on and refuse to come loose. As a matter of fact, it didn't visibly do _anything_ —but then again, good runes weren't supposed to.

Reynir grinned. He picked up the piece of paper and hugged it to his chest. Then, he leaped in the air and whooped.

"I _knew_ I could do it!"

Now, all he had to do was get the paper for five more.


	82. Can you hear me?

**Prompt:** Can you hear me?

 **Characters:** Lalli, Reynir

 **Continuity:** Follows "Hero"

* * *

The foreigner wasn't responding.

Lalli and Onni had done their duty as mages first and foremost, and guided the hundreds of lost souls down to Tuonela. The Icelander had not come with them.

This wasn't something his kind did, Onni had said. Whatever he had done to restore the lost spirits to their former selves, that was enough. His cousin had spoken of Reynir's courage with such respect that it made even Lalli pause.

Yes, he admitted to himself, grudgingly. The Icelander had probably saved them all.

After the foreign mage had so rudely broken into his haven without so much as a word of warning, Lalli had sworn that Reynir would never again be allowed any nearer than he could help, whether in this world or the physical one. It quickly became the shortest promise of his life.

The other mage's haven, when he sought it out, was barren, the grass scorched brown and a few bedraggled, skinny sheep grazing halfheartedly at the withered stalks. Worse, a pale clinging mist hung over everything, making it hard to see and impossible to enter, even if Lalli _would_ have considered committing such a bald act of rudeness. In any case, that stupid red braid was nowhere to be seen. Awake, then. He turned away.

…awake, in a certain sense.

The foreign mage had slumped where he sat, his head now resting on the side of the wooden bench. His eyes were open, but he looked at nothing, the single flame of the now-guttering candle reflecting in his eyes.

The others would be waking up soon, if they weren't already. They'd want to know what happened. Grunting with the effort, Lalli pulled Reynir to his feet (he didn't move on his own, he was nothing but deadweight), pulled the other's unresisting arm over his shoulders, and began the slow, painful dragging back to the tank.

* * *

Everyone was babbling at him all at once, and he couldn't answer.

"No… danger," he said only, in what very little Swedish he could muster up, when Sigrun came out with a great deal of gesticulating and yelling while he was still in the bath. That did not seem to satisfy her, and Lalli did not know how to add "anymore". At long last Tuuri was summoned, her mask strapped tightly to her face, and Lalli gave her a clipped account of what had transpired while he put on his clothes.

Reynir, by this point, was well out of his sight. Mikkel had stripped him, bathed him, and checked him for injury, as he still could not seem to take the initiative to do any of those things himself. Once in a while, he'd seemed dimly aware of his surroundings: he'd shuddered at the water poured over his head and once even flinched away when Mikkel had lifted his arm, but was otherwise unresponsive. He'd been dried, wrapped in blankets, and carried back inside before Lalli was even out of the water.

Lalli continued to search for him still, in brief snatches of sleep stolen from the office, from under the tank, and even a few seconds standing up—but Reynir's haven was still dark and faded and empty, and Lalli did not have the words, those stupid evasive _words_ , to call him home.

Ever since the discovery that he was a mage, Lalli had felt more at home in the dream world than he had in the waking one. There, there were only fellow mages, people who understood him; there, he could speak with anyone without dependence on a translator. He had complete control over his own environment. He didn't have to socialize with anyone he didn't want to. It was the one place that gave him all the things that this other world, what most people called the "real" world, always made so frustratingly hard to grasp.

It had always been the one place where he could speak and be heard. Not this time, though, it seemed. Of _course_ that stupid Icelander would get himself stuck out here, not at all like a proper mage.

Lalli peered into the bunk room. Everyone was there save Tuuri; _she_ was busy writing up a report, her mask still on.

She was the only one who could have understood his words, but Lalli thought that this time, simply _hearing_ them would be enough.

Reynir had noticed him. Not yet at full alertness, but he had noticed. Taking that as his cue, Lalli made his way into the room, pushed aside a _very_ affronted medic, and moved to call him back in the only way that he knew how.


	83. Heal

**Prompt:** Heal

 **Characters:** (most of) the main cast

 **Continuity:** References "Misfortune", "No Way Out", and "Stripes", as well as "I cant." if you squint.

 **Warnings:** Suicide attempt, mentions of euthanasia

* * *

She ached. Every movement was an additional twinge, the slow itch of healing, stitches pulling over deep wounds. Sigrun hadn't had a brush with death that close since…

…Sweden. It hadn't happened since Sweden. Her mother had told her she'd been calling their names in her sleep.

She let the doctors clean wounds and change bandages. She let them warn her to take it easy—she was going to be out for the rest of the season; there was no way around it. Sigrun wasn't going to give over leading her crew, though. She couldn't afford to be several months out of the field, not when she was so new to her rank. So she took scouts' reports, and examined the terrain at a walking pace, and consulted with her first lieutenant at nightfall, their heads bent together over a map by the glow of candlelight.

It didn't matter. She'd go with them when she was ready, and not a moment before.

* * *

Perhaps a real doctor with credentials could have done a better job. Even without credentials, _anyone_ else probably could have done a better job simply by virtue of having two hands to work with, as opposed to being forced to make odd contortions with their fingers and hold the ends of bandages between their teeth.

It didn't matter. What Mikkel could do on his own would serve the purpose well enough.

Unhurriedly, he set the soiled bandages to the side and picked up the antiseptic that was next to the sink. The cuts on his wrist still bled sluggishly whenever the wrappings were peeled away, but he could not stitch them himself, nor would he ask anyone else to do so.

As a medic, Mikkel was mediocre, but he wasn't _that_ mediocre. He knew _exactly_ where the artery was—yet somehow, he'd managed to miss both times.

Finished, he rolled down his sleeve, and put the supplies neatly back into his kit. Gloves and long sleeves were the norm on this base; no one would see, or ask questions. Besides, Mikkel wasn't going to be around for much longer anyway. Though he'd returned to help with the cleanup after Kastrup, that didn't change the fact that he'd been fired before.

As he took one last look in the mirror to make sure of his outward composure, he couldn't decide whether he'd been too much of a coward to follow through—or brave enough not to.

* * *

It was protocol to have every incoming individual quarantined in a different room. When they tried to coax her away, however, Tuuri threw her arms around his neck and would not be pried off whatever the attempted method, whether cajoling words or the application of a crowbar (and there _was_ talk at one point of employing a crowbar). Eventually the adults were forced to shrug and look at each other helplessly, before deciding that they had been in close contact for so long that if one of them was infected, the other certainly was as well, and that it would be kinder to keep what was left of the family together than to take the potential risk of forcing them to spend their last days miserable and alone.

Tuuri had seen her brother cry before—but this was the first time she'd seen him cry _blood_.

The first day, a man in a mage's uniform had come up to the glass. He'd taken one look at Onni, shook his head, and said there was nothing to do but wait.

Tuuri didn't _want_ to wait. She wanted to be let out of here, and she wanted her brother to be okay.

They were not cruel. They brought her games, a few puzzles and toys, and they made sure that she was well-fed. Whenever she had a meal, though, it only served to remind her that Onni would not wake to eat.

Every day, a wrinkled old woman doctor would come in and make Tuuri take off her clothes, and check her head to toe for any signs of illness. Every pimple was meticulously scrutinized. Every sneeze or clearing of her throat brought a barrage of questions.

A doctor came every day for Onni too, and checked him physically (though of course, he could not answer questions) while Tuuri was going through her own ordeal behind a hastily-rigged curtain. On the second day, the doctors conferred on the other side of the window with the speaker turned off, and though Tuuri did not hear what they were saying she could read the serious expressions on their faces, the worry in their eyes.

"What's going on?" she yelled, pounding on the reinforced glass. They did not answer.

When the two of them came back in again, this time accompanied by another, younger woman with a needle in hand, Tuuri was crouched by Onni's head, her fingers wrapped protectively in his hair and feral snarl on her face.

"I won't let you do it!" she remembered shouting, launching herself at the newcomer.

She had to be held back, kicking and screaming. "We're trying to _help_ him, silly girl," the older doctor scolded her brusquely. "Helvetti, as if we _could_ pull this over on you, smart as you are."

Looking over, Tuuri saw that she had told the truth. Still, she could not stop herself from breaking down in sobs as she watched them feed a plastic tube into her brother's arm, and that night she curled up against his side rather than seek her own bed.

"What's Keuruu like?" she asked the next day, when they let Lalli come visit.

"Everything's weird here." He gave a half-shrug. "I want to go back to Saimaa."

Tuuri felt her fists clenching at her sides. _What do you have to be complaining about you have it easy you're_ _immune_ _and we're stuck in here and I'm terrified and I want Mommy and Daddy…_

"Well, we can't," she said shortly, and turned away.

When Onni blinked open his eyes on the fourth day, Tuuri nearly strangled him from hugging him so hard.

"I was so worried about you," she sobbed, burying her face in his shoulder.

"You shouldn't worry about me." He moved as if he was going to hug her, discovered the tubing, winced, and wrapped a single arm around her instead. "This isn't a big deal. I'm fine."

* * *

Emil trudged back to the barracks after yet another long day that was far wearier than it should have been. They never even let him _do_ anything—he shouldn't have been nearly as tired as he was.

None of the officers wanted him. It was always "Go stand sentry duty, Västerström," or "Stay behind and guard the camp, Västerström," or "It's your turn on the latrine, Västerström"—even if he'd already done latrine duty the day before, _and_ the day before that.

Now, the others were all laughing and joking over a game of cards, while Emil lay on his bunk and tried to pretend he wasn't interested. The last few times he'd tried to join, everyone else had broken into random fits of snickering, and Emil _knew_ they were talking about him behind his back. "Crybaby Västerström," he'd heard someone whisper, and he'd felt his face grow hot at the reminder of how shamefully he'd injured himself the other day (and not even in combat, it had been a stupid weapons training accident), and how he actually _had_ cried when the medic had tended his burned hand and assured him (to a good laugh all around) that he probably wouldn't have to worry about any scars ruining his precious skin.

 _I'll show them_ , he thought, rolling over and burying his head beneath the pillow. _One of these days, I'm going to get my big break, and then they'll see. They'll all be sorry they didn't appreciate me before I was a hero._

* * *

Physically, they all came out of it fine—but that didn't mean they weren't still wounded. All of them thought they were never going to heal.

Years later, though, saw a captain pulling down the neck of her shirt to show her own scars to a wounded subordinate, her forming new attachments to ease the ones she'd lost, the easing of his fears and insecurities, his confidence boosted. That same evening also saw a young mechanic sobbing out the story of Saimaa into the medic's chest, and him holding her silently for a long time before he at last rumbled out the story of Kastrup, and rolled up his sleeve to show her his scars.

It wasn't over yet. Absolutely none of it was over—but they were getting there, little by little.

* * *

 **A/N:** I would have liked to include Reynir and Lalli, but... I couldn't find a place for them...


	84. Out Cold

**Prompt:** Out Cold

 **Characters:** Mikkel, Sigrun

* * *

Mikkel was starting to think he'd underestimated their captain.

He was already dead on his feet, and _he_ wasn't the one who'd taken a nasty beating in icy water while already wounded. Sigrun, though, seemed to care little for cold or for pain, consulting with Tuuri on their campsite through the partition even while Mikkel was working to get them all decontaminated, then heading back into the bunk to get into some dry clothes well before they had parked. It was just as well, he supposed: Mikkel had been in situations where he'd had to _force_ someone at risk of hypothermia to stay up and moving until they could get somewhere warm, and it was never fun for anyone involved. Whether Sigrun stayed on her feet on her own initiative because she was aware of the dangers of cold or because she had duties that she knew could not wait, it made his job infinitely easier.

Unfortunately for him, Mikkel also had a job that could not wait. The water in that channel was far from clean, and Sigrun had been immersed in it with open wounds. Infection was not going to wait until morning, regardless of how much _he_ might have wanted to.

Emil was already collapsed on his bunk and out like a stone by the time they had parked, and were on steady enough ground for Mikkel and Sigrun to retreat into the office, where she once more sat down and pushed up her sleeve without a word.

The bandages were soaked, and stained pink in places where blood had seeped through. Mikkel grimaced as he gently unwound them and found his worries confirmed: torn stitches, that would cost her in healing time. He'd _warned_ her not to strain that arm—but even as he had the thought, he knew it to be unfair. If she hadn't cut her sling, she probably would have drowned.

In silence, he removed the ruined sutures and flushed the wounds thoroughly before placing new ones. Sigrun didn't complain—not even of boredom. Mikkel almost wished that she would—he was yawning almost continuously as he finally finished his work and bandaged up her arm, and while having a patient kicking, screaming, and cursing his name wasn't an experience he savored, it _was_ an effective way to stay awake.

"This is done," he said around yet another yawn, after tucking the last bandage into place. "You can—"

He'd been about to say "go to bed," but was cut off by a loud snore. Looking up, he saw that Sigrun had slumped sideways onto the table, her head pillowed on her good arm and a line of drool running from the corner of her mouth to soak into her sleeve.

Mikkel let out a sigh. Sigrun hadn't protested him giving her a somewhat stronger painkiller this time, and though he hadn't expected the typical side effect of drowsiness to be so intense, he really should have seen this coming. It was late, and she was exhausted.

"Sigrun," he tried, shaking her gently by the shoulder. In answer, she only gave a snort and buried her face in the crook of her elbow.

She wasn't going to make this easy for him, was she?

For a moment, Mikkel was tempted to leave her to stay the night right where she was—a perfectly acceptable prank under normal circumstances, and one whose blame couldn't even be placed on him (" _You're_ the one who decided to fall asleep there, how is that any problem of mine?"), but decided that under the circumstances, he couldn't justify it. She needed to sleep warm.

Sigrun mumbled in protest when he hoisted her up by her good arm—she was still half-asleep. "You'll thank me in the morning," he said instead. "Up you get."

He hadn't thought so far as getting her into her bed ( _Why_ was it that Sigrun of all people had to insist on taking the top bunk?). For now, just getting her out of the office would have to do. Mikkel emphatically told himself he was _not_ relieved to see Reynir pop up right when he had reached the door—still too wound up to sleep, more likely than not.

"Um, Mikkel? Is there anything I can—"

"Yes," he said before Reynir could even finish. "Take her other arm— _gently_." Sigrun was all wiry muscle and of a height with both of them, but somehow, between the two of them they managed to get her into her bunk without dropping her, waking any of the others, or (always a risk) stepping on Lalli. Immediately she rolled over onto her stomach and buried her face in her pillow with a goofy smile.

That seen to, Mikkel was all too happy to take his own turn to crash.


	85. Spiral

**Prompt:** Spiral

 **Characters:** Lalli

* * *

When he was in his own territory, it made sense to take the least risky route.

Start at the closest point to the safe zone. Scout outward in an ever-widening circle, sweeping below and above for grosslings, keeping his senses— _all_ of them—alert for anything bigger and more dangerous. A lone scout guarding a single area had to be alert from attack from any side.

Around and around, running through the night. Secure the closest areas first, then widen the perimeter, expand the circle. Don't give up on ground gained. Keep going, expand outward.

These cities were not like the wilderness around Keuruu. They'd imposed their own vision onto the lay of the land; they forced him to move in straight lines. He was guarding nothing. Find a route. Help us get from Point A to Point B. They weren't settled. They were drifting.

Change directions, adjust course. That road was blocked; better not take it. Crossing it out on his mental map. Jog to the side, find another road, always in straight lines, always a risk of ambush, easy prey.

Shapes had power. Shapes guided routes, controlled the flow of water, strengthened or weakened a resisting village against attack. This was the wrong shape, but he could not find another.


	86. Seeing Red

**Prompt:** Seeing Red

 **Characters:** Reynir, Sigrun

 **Warning:** Some blood

* * *

"What's she going to do to me now?" Reynir whispered to Mikkel shortly after his rescue, after they'd walked past the radio and he'd been subjected to an ear-burning tirade of incomprehensible Norwegian whose meaning was nonetheless still horribly plain.

"Now?" Mikkel hefted the washbasin with only one arm. "Now, she's going to scream and rant and rave for a few minutes, and hopefully burn herself out before _I_ have to deal with her."

It worked. Reynir had been holding his breath, but when the time came for dinner the captain walked past him without a word, making a face as Mikkel handed her a bowl.

Still, he could not help but wonder—and he could not help but be on edge. He could understand _some_ bits of Scandinavian languages, after all, and when she said "Troll Agn," he needed no translation. Mikkel was the one who'd taken him in, but Reynir had known all along that he was only here on _her_ good graces.

He tried to stay out of her way. Mostly he helped Tuuri in the office when she would let him, or Mikkel with the cleaning… when _he_ would let him. Once or twice he even helped Emil, after he brought back that poor orphaned kitten—Emil wasn't so bad, it turned out, once you got to know him. Lalli was mostly asleep when Reynir was awake, but he did help _move_ Lalli once or twice, when Mikkel needed to clean around him, so he supposed that that counted as helping Lalli.

Sigrun, he avoided.

If he'd thought that Emil had hated him, he _knew_ that Sigrun did. After her initial outburst it seemed as if she'd determined to ignore him, and while Reynir hated that he was disrupting their mission and would have liked to be able to do something useful, he'd take what he could get. At least he'd be able to stay out of the way.

Then, red splashed in front of his face when a troll leaped out of the snow at him, and she threw herself between them instead.

It had taken minutes that felt like years and a lengthy reassurance from Mikkel before Reynir could even breathe normally again, let alone _think_ , he'd been so close to death. She'd saved him—well, he supposed she was doing her job. Still, Sigrun had to hate him even more after this.

Except… she didn't seem mad.

Things got even weirder when she actually started _talking_ to him.

"Sigrun suggests that you be more assertive in your prayers."

"Huh?" Reynir was crouched in the bunkroom, wondering whether the gods were going to smite him with each passing minute, and looked up in shock at Mikkel's approach. He hadn't even heard the other man come in.

"She was very emphatic on the point of the disdain of the gods—" He pinched the bridge of his nose. "—of _your_ gods for weaklings. Try to keep that in mind in the future."

"I was just trying not to insult them," he muttered. He looked up. Mikkel was still there, raising an eyebrow. "Hey, Mikkel? What do you know about the gods?"

"Not much. But according to most Norwegians they're a lot like Sigrun."

For a minute Reynir attempted to picture an entire pantheon of tall, red-haired Norwegians who killed trolls with their teeth, and promptly gave up with a shudder.

…he wasn't going to draw his runes in blood, either. That was gross.

"Where would she _get_ such an idea, anyway?" he asked Mikkel, in private, once Tuuri was out of earshot.

"I can't answer for whatever nonsense you believers get up to in your spare time."

Of course, he couldn't _really_ ask her; she wasn't a mage. And Onni answered to different gods. And Mikkel didn't believe.

It was probably the same as everyone else, he thought, morose, as he sat brooding over his dinner that night. No one believed that Reynir could be useful as anything other than an assistant… or troll bait. His efforts were decoration, not good enough… and really, why _should_ they believe in him? They didn't _know_ he could do anything useful… _he_ didn't know if he could do anything useful.

He was so deep into his own thoughts that he didn't even notice when Sigrun sat down beside him until she pulled the rune he'd given her out of her pocket and waved it in front of his face, saying something whose meaning he couldn't quite grasp.

"Oh no, no, keep it," he said, waving her hand away. "I gave those out to protect everyone, after all."

She shrugged and withdrew her hand. Then, however, she drew her dagger.

"What are you—!"

Reynir fell silent as the tip bit into her finger, as she held it over the paper and let bright crimson drip onto his careful drawing. She raised an eyebrow at him.

"Okay." Reynir took a shaky breath. Now he had no choice. He used his fingers, carefully smearing the new medium out into the old shape, adding a slight alteration here and there when he thought it appropriate. Sigrun didn't comment. She only watched.

"It's still disgusting," he said as he handed it back. Sigrun grinned and slapped him on the shoulder before babbling something in return.

Blood and magic… he still didn't know how to feel about that. Ew. Still, she'd shed her blood to protect him. Maybe, if he could harness that willingness to sacrifice, he could bestow a more potent protection on everyone else in turn.


	87. Food

I finally turned in my thesis so now I have time to write stuff that's not-thesis again!

 **Prompt:** Food

 **Characters:** Sigrun, The Generals Eide

* * *

It wasn't unusual for one or both of her parents to be out of the country for long stretches at a time. Sigrun was fine with that; it only meant that she would have Mom all to herself for a few months, or Dad, or if they were both gone, a stay with Uncle Trond or Valda's dad who'd lost a foot retaking the North side or Halla's mom who wasn't immune.

It didn't hurt, either, that when her parents returned from their foreign campaigns they almost always brought something interesting back with them: Swedish-made toys, staves carved by Icelandic mages, a new cloak or pair of boots to replace the ones she'd outgrown while they were away.

"What's in there?" Sigrun asked, straddling the side of the ship and peering down at the crates upon crates that were being unloaded.

"In here?" Her father grinned, and slapped the lid of one of the crates. "This is fresh fruit, straight from the greenhouses in Iceland. We'll even let you have some tonight if you behave."

Fruit was good, but it was also _weird_.

You couldn't just bite into a piece of fruit like you bit into a piece of bread, or cheese, or any other _normal_ food. Eat the skin… don't eat the skin… slice the skin up and bake it coated in honey… the skin is so thin you barely even know it's there… the skin is so thick it can be used for a training exercise… the skin is _furry_ … Fruit was stupid, and prissy, and had to be peeled or cut _just right_ before you could even eat it, and Sigrun didn't see why anyone would waste their time messing with something that was such a chore to eat… except it was _sweet_ , and kids in Dalsnes never got to eat _anything_ sweet (according to Valda's dad there was all sorts of sweet stuff over in Sweden and children in Iceland got fruit with every meal, and Sigrun swore that as soon as she was old enough she was going to travel all over the Known World and possibly beyond because she was going to get her fair share if it killed her), so she continued to mutter under her breath at the stuff even as she swallowed down every last scrap.

"You don't eat the bone along with the meat, Sigrun," her mother told her one day—after she'd stopped laughing, that is; nobody had _told_ her that the delicious looking red flesh tasted like wood shavings and it was the swollen pink seeds that you were _supposed_ to eat, even though the _last_ piece of fruit she'd eaten, they'd explicitly told her _not_ to eat the single giant seed that was resting at the middle, and she'd spent the past few minutes spitting and scraping out the flecks of white that seemed all too determined to cling to her tongue. Sending a glare of betrayal her mother's way had only made her laugh all the harder. "You crack it open and suck out the marrow, and then you throw the rest away. Does the fact that you have to work for it mean that it's not worth eating?"

"I _know_ how to suck bone marrow," Sigrun replied sullenly. "This is just stupid."

"Maybe." Her mother ruffled her hair. "But it's also a good way to grow up big and strong."

 _Strength through adversity_ , they'd always been taught—but adversity for her was never stupid mind-puzzles she didn't know how to solve. It was an intensity of experience, sometimes even to the point of pain, but one that you reveled in without trying to blunt it or to hide.

Lifting a wedge of bright lemon to her mouth, Sigrun bit.

* * *

 **A/N:** This entire chapter _might_ have been a thinly-veiled excuse to show kid Sigrun attempting to bite into a pomegranate.


	88. Pain

**Prompt:** Pain

 **Characters:** Sigrun

 **Warning:** Depictions of blood and injury

* * *

Everybody in the Known World over the age of three was familiar with the First Rule: stand still and stay silent. When you were fighting trolls rather than just hiding from them, though, standing still was not an option, and the Hunters of Dalsnes had developed their own, simpler variation on the First Rule:

Don't scream.

A soldier who showed weakness in the field was a dead soldier, and someone who made enough noise to attract trolls would be responsible for a dead _team_. When (not if) you were hurt, if you were capable of standing, you stood. Even if you weren't, you only called for help if you were sure that help would hear you—or if you were sure that it wouldn't, and decided you'd rather go in a blaze of glory than bleed out or starve or freeze. Crying, though, never did anyone any good.

Sigrun had known not to cry for as long as she had known how to talk. Children in Dalsnes—especially the ones with immunity, who might become soldiers—knew to see it as a weakness, and mercilessly taunted and teased anyone who ever complained of pain. It wasn't exclusive to the children, either.

"They're never going to let you into the Hunters if you keep carrying on like that," her father lightly chided her as he washed the dirt from her skinned knee. "We get hurt a lot worse than this every day, fighting trolls." He was right, Sigrun knew: her parents both had scars all up and down their bodies, and her father was still missing a tooth from where a flailing rib bone had once whacked him in the face, back when he'd still been a private.

The norm in Dalsnes was for children to play rough, and by the time she was old enough to enlist, Sigrun was as comfortable with the sight of her own blood as she was with the sight of her face in the mirror, and had broken most of her limbs at least once. Still, the first time a troll had _really_ got its claws into her, when she'd been fifteen and an ambusher had swiped her side and slammed her up against a rock before the others could kill it properly, she'd had to turn her head to the side and throw up at the sight of her wound, all jagged torn skin that ran so long and so deep she could not help but wonder how none of her organs had fallen out.

That was her first real scar. It was far from her last.

By the time she was twenty, Sigrun knew every trick in the book: keep your breathing steady, bite down on a piece of leather (or if you were _really_ desperate, your own fist), and for Thor's sake don't look at what the medics are doing. A good warrior ought to be able to get along with or without painkillers, but if someone offers them to you anyway, you say yes.

Watching the kids (but especially Emil; gods, he was in the military and nearly twenty, yet still a baby in so many ways), Sigrun could not help but wonder what the world was coming to, how soft the Swedish military had to be. She wondered, too, what it would be like to be a kid again, to fear pain and scars, before shaking her head and pushing the matter to the side, to be dealt with never.

It was what it was—and so was her life. It wasn't an easy life, but Sigrun had chosen, and she had no regrets.

* * *

 **A/N:** I recall using this exact same prompt for another character in an entirely different fandom who also had a sky-high tolerance for pain. Sigrun's reasons are much less distressing than his.


	89. Through the Fire

**Prompt:** Through the Fire

 **Characters:** Lalli, Emil

 **Warnings:** Blood, severe injury

 **Ship:** Can be read as Emilalli if you like. Shipping goggles are optional.

* * *

Lalli always knew when something was wrong.

He had good senses, honed by years of scouting alone in the dark—but he also had something else, what Tuuri sometimes called his "sixth" sense and Onni said was because he was a mage. All Lalli knew was that sometimes, even though there was nothing out of the ordinary that he could see or hear or smell, his mind would go on instant alert for no apparent reason, his nerves drawn as tight as a bowstring, and that when this happened, it was always in his best interest to _listen_.

 _Where_ were Emil and Sigrun?

Slowly putting down the load of books he'd been in the process of hefting for their salvage, taking extra care not to make any noise, Lalli drew his dagger and peeked through the front door of the derelict building.

The others were nowhere in sight: no incomprehensible chattering, no footsteps, no unexpected _explosions_. Lalli's heart beat faster as he hurried from one end of the street to the other.

It was far too quiet.

He and Sigrun saw each other at the same time, her stepping out of a door right as he rounded the side of the building. Emil was not with her.

They looked at each other. Lalli had only learned a few words of Swedish, but when he said "Fara," for Sigrun, that was enough. She nodded, hand on dagger, and hurried along behind him as Lalli continued his sweep of the streets.

They found him slumped up against the side of a house, white uniform stained with red, his bloodied dagger fallen from his hand and resting at his side. Emil's eyes cracked open as they hurried up to kneel beside him, and with what looked like a monumental effort he attempted to speak.

"Troll… det…" His nod indicated the building across the street, whose rotted door revealed a gaping black maw that could very well hide a nest. A trail of fresh blood led inside.

 _Something_ peered out of the darkness at them. It let out a pathetic whimper.

It was impossible to say whether it was Sigrun or Lalli who struck the fatal blow, but within seconds of them seeing it, its suffering was at an end. Then, Sigrun was pointing him back at the tank, shouting orders—"Få Mikkel!"—and though the words made no sense to Lalli he knew well enough what to do.

Emil was hurt badly. They needed the medic.

When he returned, Mikkel puffing behind him (how was it possible for the man to run so _slowly?_ ), it was to find Emil right where Lalli had left him, with Sigrun kneeling beside him; she was pressing her hands to the wound, and was talking talking talking at him, "Bli hos meg," an uncharacteristically soft steady stream of constant meaningless talk. She stood aside when Mikkel moved to take her place.

Emil took the treatment with eyes squeezed closed, and was breathing through gritted teeth, but by the time they were ready to move him back to the tank, though he was still breathing his eyes would not open at all.

* * *

The next day, he still had not woken.

He'd been wrapped up in blankets, his wound cleaned and bandaged, but even though Tuuri had said he should be fine, Lalli could not leave his spot kneeling next to Emil. He reached out to pat Emil's hair; his skin was hot to the touch.

Lalli would have liked to take Mikkel by the shoulders and shake him, demand what he thought he was _doing_ because he obviously wasn't doing it right; Emil wasn't getting better. …except Lalli had seen people come back hurt all the time in Keuruu, and he knew that no matter how good the doctor (and Mikkel wasn't good, or even a doctor), there would always be some who couldn't be saved.

Instead, he did what he could. He scouted them a safe route because it was dangerous for them to stay in the same place too long. When he wasn't doing that, he stayed by Emil's side, occasionally reaching out to pat his hand or hair. Hoping that Emil would somehow know that he was there.

On the third day, Emil's eyes blinked open. He stared at the ceiling for a few seconds before looking to the side with a start.

"Lalli?"

He tried to sit up, winced, pressed a hand to his side and felt the bandages. Lalli touched his shoulder and he eased back down; he must have realized how weak he still was.

Still, Lalli could not help but smile as he patted Emil's arm a few more times, and Emil reached out to curl his fingers around Lalli's hand in turn.

* * *

 **A/N:** This one is **Tr's** fault. I hope you're happy with yourself.


	90. Last Hope

**Characters:** Reynir, Sigrun

 **Warning:** Major character death

 **Inspiration:** "Josef's Train" by Thea Gilmore

...also, I've kind of butchered the native mythology here. *cringes* Sorry.

* * *

The train was nearly full, but it _felt_ empty. The passengers were near-silent, speaking in whispers if they spoke at all, their presence nothing more than a wisp seen from the corner of one's eye. The mere padding of Reynir's boots, normally so quiet he could sneak up on a wild animal unnoticed, here seemed to pound against the floor in a continuous blasphemous echo.

When he found her, she was also uncharacteristically quiet. Still, she wasn't hard to spot: a tall redhead sitting with her arms sprawled out across the backs of the seats beside her and her legs stretched out into the aisle, her gaze fixed on the opposite window. The uniform she wore was different from the one he was accustomed to seeing her in: blue and brown, with a fur-lined cape. Some things remained consistent, though: her rifle was still strapped to her back and a knife hung at her belt, and for some reason, that made him glad. He didn't think he'd have known her without them. Without a word, Reynir traversed the length of the carriage.

"Why are you here?" Sigrun did not turn to look at him, and her voice was without ire, without any emotion at all: not like the last time he'd shown up unannounced. She crossed her arms as she spoke, though, and Reynir knew what a wrong answer would cost him.

"Didn't want you to be alone." She turned her head slightly to look at him with a single eye; in return, he offered a small smile. Finally, though, Sigrun patted the seat that was next to her, and Reynir sat.

They didn't speak. Somehow, idle small talk seemed wrong in this place. As for anything more meaningful he could have thought to say… well. In the end anything he could have offered would have been for his sake, not hers, and somehow Reynir knew that that was not the right way to do things, not here, not now. So he stayed silent, and watched the scenery roll by.

Ever so slowly, the sky reddened, dust motes dancing in the heavy light of sunset slanting in through the windows. The flat rich farmland before them remained unchanged in the golden light. Sigrun sighed.

"You miss the mountains?" he ventured.

"Always."

To that, Reynir could only nod. He knew all too well what it was like to long for one's home.

"So what are you going to do?" she asked at last. "Ride all the way back after you've reached the end of the line?"

He hunched his shoulders in a noncommittal shrug. "Guess so."

For the first time that day, a smile crept onto her face as she gave her head a small disbelieving shake. "Kids these days," she muttered. "You're nothing but sentiment."

Reynir did not answer. There were far worse things to be accused of, after all.

Slowly, the light faded from the windows, and the brilliant sunset colors faded to murky blue. Together, they watched the stars come out one by one. Reynir recited the constellations in his head as they winked at him out of the sky. He wondered, but didn't ask, whether Sigrun could name them as well.

It was almost a surprise when the train began to slow. Sigrun, however, seemed ready; Reynir had only just begun to consciously process the motion when she shifted her weight. "Looks like this is my stop."

They were coming to a stop: the first one on their journey so far. Looking through the window as the train rolled to a halt, Reynir could just make out a rickety wood platform lit by orange lantern light, and beyond that, a group of women on horseback. Sigrun stood.

"Tell Emil to look after himself, would you? I want him to be a proper Viking warrior the next time I see him, not some sniveling baby."

"I'll… try."

"Good man." A brief bump on the shoulder, and then she was moving to disembark with the rest of the crowd, leaving Reynir with nothing to say. She carried only her weapons: whatever baggage she might have claimed had already gone on ahead.

A single gloved hand was raised to wave at him before she became one with the crowd, but she did not look back.

* * *

When he woke, it was to Mikkel's large hand shaking him awake. Tersely, without preamble, he then informed Reynir that the captain's heart had stopped in the middle of the night.

"I know."

Reynir said nothing more: no one who understood him would have believed him, and anyone who might believe him couldn't have understood.

Tuuri was gripping Lalli's arm hard enough to bruise, sobs racking her body while her cousin stared ahead with an inscrutable expression. Emil was also staring: glassy-eyed, as if he couldn't quite manage to process the reality that was before him.

She and Emil had come back from a mission: Reynir never had found out exactly what had happened, but she'd been limping severely even after getting cleaned up. That evening, he'd been passing by the office and had seen her lifting up her shirt, noticed her cringe and hiss of pain when Mikkel had pressed a hand to her stomach.

Their journey had ended in a lot of frantic radio calls and a mad rush to the coast. Too slow: Mikkel had gotten her into bed and kept her warm and made her stay very, very still, but they had no supplies for this kind of emergency. He had bought her time, but not nearly enough, and Sigrun had slowly bled to death from the inside out while they were still days away from the nearest hospital.

Reynir managed only one glimpse before he was pushed to the edge of the room: the one outsider, an interloper. Mikkel had at least closed her eyes and draped a blanket over her, but the body in front of him now was nothing more than an empty shell: the woman he'd said goodbye to on the train, he knew, was someone he'd never see again in this life.

"I will you well," he whispered to himself, and somehow, he thought he heard the faintest echo of those words repeated back.

* * *

 **A/N:** I was in the middle of a severe bout of writer's block when I was listening to one of my Spotify playlists, that song played, and BAM! Image of Sigrun and Reynir sitting on a train popped right into the head. So I decided to do the unthinkable for once and publish a few NaNo prompts... *gasp* ... _out of order_ _!_

I'm still not sure why I write so much about death. Maybe because it's one of those things that's easy to come to terms with as a fact of life, something that happens to everybody sooner or later, unlike so many horrible things about life. At any rate, I strongly headcanon Sigrun as... definitely not _wanting_ to die, but still being at peace with her own mortality.

Oh yes, and I can see the influence of _Twilight Zone_ and _Spirited Away_ ALL OVER this short.


	91. Triangle

**Prompt:** "Triangle"

 **Characters:** Lalli, Emil, Kitty

 **Ship:** Emil/Lalli? I _think?_

* * *

Lalli didn't like competition.

No, he wasn't thinking about the fact that they now had a second mage. Annoying though his presence might be, the braided amateur clearly had no idea what he was doing, so his status as a mage was no threat. No, Lalli was thinking of someone else, the _one person_ who'd made his time on this team worth it. They could have another mage, they could even have another scout, but this? This was _insufferable_.

Emil simply _would not stop playing_ with that stupid kitten. Worse yet, everybody else actually seemed to expect Lalli to _like_ the little interloper.

Including, apparently, the little interloper.

"Miu."

"Get _off_ ," he hissed, pushing the devil in disguise from his leg before she could get a good grip, when she would have clung on with claws that seemed to pierce straight through even his thigh-high boots. She even had the nerve to give him an affronted look before she stalked off, tail held high, to go in search of Emil instead.

… _his_ Emil. There had been a time when Emil had been all too happy to comb out his hair after he came back from a long, hard night of scouting, softly murmuring all the while in a steady stream of incomprehensible Swedish. Now, he didn't even look at Lalli as his hands stroked the kitten that had leaped into his lap.

It just wasn't _fair_.

"Maybe you should try to get to know Kisa," Tuuri ventured one night, to add insult to injury. "You know… show her the ropes? I'm sure she'd make a great scout with a bit of training up."

" _I'm_ the scout," Lalli snapped back before rolling under Emil's bed.

To make things even worse, he woke that afternoon to find the devil-with-fur wrapped snugly around his neck. He flung her from his body with a hissed oath, and only by catching her claws on Emil's arm did she manage to avoid ending up as a bloody stain against the wall of the tank—and good riddance, Lalli thought; he was not yet feeling charitable enough to consider what it would do to the morale of the team to lose a (he begrudgingly admitted) useful cat, or to Emil personally to lose his… pet.

Apparently Emil wasn't feeling too charitable at the moment either. "Lalli!" he scolded, cupping the mewling nuisance with one hand, apparently heedless of his ripped sleeve or the bloody claw marks on his skin—he hadn't been wearing his jacket when he'd entered the bunk. "Vad är _fel_ med dig?"

"She was in my _space_ ," Lalli hissed back, talking right over each other as always. He yanked his hood on and slipped outside to scout before Emil could do any more yelling in a language he didn't understand.

When he came back, of course, it was to find the two of them cuddled up together in Emil's bunk as if _he'd_ never been there at all.

What did Emil _see_ in that beast? What did _anyone_ see in her? Sure, she could sense trolls… but so could Lalli! While Lalli might not have been able to answer him when he spoke, it wasn't like the kitten could say anything but "Meow". True, she was softer and fluffier and Emil liked to pet her, but there'd once been a time when he'd run his fingers through Lalli's hair as well, combing and grooming while Lalli relaxed and leaned back into Emil's chest and let the tension ease from his muscles after a hard night's work…

He looked at Emil's face. Emil looked so tranquil with the kitten curled up against his chest. Had it been the same for him when Lalli was in that position? To his shame, he honestly couldn't have said—he'd never looked at Emil's face. Clearly, though, whether he'd ever felt that way with Lalli or not, he didn't need Lalli for it anymore.

 _You've won_ , he thought as he slipped under Emil's bunk. _Gods only know why, but you've won._ Time to stop getting in Emil's way and get on with his life. Lalli might fight to the bitter end, but he knew when he'd been defeated.

* * *

The next day, he was awoken by a commotion when Tuuri and the obnoxious Icelander were packed into the room, both of them jabbering away in a language he couldn't understand.

Annoyed, Lalli rolled out from under the bed—and realized that they were both wearing breathing masks.

"It was a close one," Tuuri explained, shakily, once she realized that he was awake. "If Kisa hadn't warned them I don't know what… what might have…"

Poking his head into the office, Lalli saw Sigrun, grim-faced, sitting backwards on an office chair while an equally grim-faced Mikkel swabbed out three parallel gashes on her upper back. Beyond them, Emil was sprawled on another chair, face drawn with exhaustion and bandages wound around his stomach. Lalli went to him.

"Hej." Emil saw his approach and smiled… hesitantly, he thought. Lalli was about to come closer when…

"Miu."

Lalli looked down. There was the little interloper, twined between Emil's legs, looking up at him with wide eyes.

She'd saved them, Tuuri had said. She'd given them enough of a warning that they'd only been hurt, not killed or maimed. If he'd been there, Lalli liked to think that he would have done better, that nobody would have been hurt at all… but Lalli hadn't been there. Kisa had.

This time, Lalli didn't hiss a warning at her. Instead, he turned away.

"Lalli, vänta—"

Lalli turned back to him, startled. Emil had started to lurch from the chair but fallen back into it, panting, while Mikkel said something to him that sounded exasperated. Emil only nodded, looked again at Lalli with pleading eyes, and patted the chair next to him.

When Lalli sat, Emil leaned into him. Lalli let him—how many times had Emil done this for him?

Not a minute had passed before the kitten was sprawled over both of their laps together.

* * *

 **A/N:** I hated this prompt. One false start with the idea of a trinity, then I got the idea for triangle as in love triangle, another false start before I finally came up with the completely ridiculous idea of Lalli competing for Emil's affections with a kitten.


	92. Drowning

**Prompt:** Drowning

 **Characters:** Michael, Signe

 **Ship:** Michael/Signe

* * *

"It's never going to go back to the way it was, is it?"

They were lying in bed together after a hard day's work. Nobody had even blinked when they'd started sharing a bed—even if today, like most days, they were too tired to do anything but collapse into each other's arms and fall asleep.

"Are you serious?" Signe, beside him, stirred; she sounded as if she'd been on the verge of falling asleep, and did not particularly appreciate being dragged back into consciousness. "Seemed to me like that was a given."

Michael didn't answer. It _was_ ; he'd known it ever since that day on the ferry. Somehow, though, some far more immediate worry always seemed to get in the way of him truly acknowledging it: losing his job, the long journey to his sister's farm with all normal modes of transportation breaking down, the hard weary drudgery of every day that had passed since then, the sudden realization that Signe was actually _returning_ his not-so-subtle puppy eyes with some sly, knowing looks of her own and he had no idea what to do… Somehow, by focusing on the little things, he'd managed to forget that the world he'd known was crashing down around him. It was a fantasy he still sometimes allowed himself to entertain: they'd beat back the tide of infection, find a cure, defeat the Rash. Maybe it would even start at this very farm, with Signe's research or a gem of crucial knowledge hidden in the guts of his phone (which would no longer turn on because the battery had long since died).

It was a fairy tale. A pipe dream told to children to make them sleep in a world where any sane person would be shaking in their boots.

He said some of this out loud, before letting out a sigh. "It just makes me wonder… what kind of world are our great-grandchildren going to be living in? They're not even going to remember that the world ever _was_ any different…"

"Great-grandchildren?" Signe had pushed herself up on her elbow, and was fixing him with a glare. "Look, buster, whoever said anything about us having _children_ , let alone what happens several generations down the line?"

"No, wait, I didn't mean—" Michael sputtered through excuses for a few minutes before he realized that Signe was laughing at him.

"You ought to be fired," he grumbled as he settled back down.

"From _what?_ " she shot back, snuggling up close with an arm thrown across his chest. "Besides, your sister likes me too much to kick me out."

They shared a quick chuckle, but that soon subsided as Michael's mind kept circling back and circling back to the topic at hand. _He_ could remember a world of smartphones and internet, computers and antibiotics, where a pandemic was no worse than the flu, his friends and family were no further away than the touch of a button, and his worst nightmare was losing the job he'd hated anyway. Even as he'd sat crying on the ferry, that world had toppled around him—the next few generations would know it as nothing more than a distant dream, if they remembered it at all. The very foundations of his world had been washed away.

"I just…" he started, ran a hand over his face, started again. "Sometimes I feel like I'm drowning."

Signe blinked at him. Then, she pushed herself up, rolled over, and straddled him, fingers digging lightly into the hard farmer's muscles that he still couldn't quite believe were actually _his_.

"Then I guess," she said, leaning down until their noses were almost touching, "that you'd better learn how to swim."

* * *

 **A/N:** Michael/Signe is probably my favorite prologue ship, because they're the complete antithesis of your stereotypical apocalypse survivors - never mind your stereotypical apocalyptic _romance_ , yet here they are.


	93. All That I Have

**Prompt:** All That I Have

 **Characters:** Sigrun (our Sigrun), Aksel

 **Ship:** Aksel/Sigrun L.

* * *

It was one of the few things she had ever willingly read.

Sigrun knew who her ancestors were, of course—their portraits were up on the wall of the hall at Dalnes along with everyone else's, her great-grandmother and namesake pumping her fist into the air in enthusiasm while her great-grandfather smiled shyly. They both had died well before she had lived, and though she expected to meet them both in Valhalla someday, she had never expected to hear their voices across the generations.

"It's for you," was the only thing her father had told her when he'd handed her the letter on the day of her enlistment. For once, Sigrun's curiosity had overcome her disdain for the written word, and she'd flipped it open that night as she'd lain on her bunk in the barracks, unpacking temporarily forgotten.

 _I still don't know if we're doing the right thing._

 _Sigrun keeps telling me to stop being so paranoid and overthinking stuff. Sometimes, I think that she's right. Other times, though, I remembered what Ingrid used to say whenever she tried to rope us into whatever environmental crusade she was championing that week: What kind of world are we leaving for our children?_

 _There isn't a day that goes by where I don't ask myself that question. You might not believe me if I told you that there was a time when people didn't have to live in constant fear, and it's why you wouldn't believe me that makes me despair for what kind of life you'll lead. Odds are you'll be hungry and cold, without the benefits of modern technology or modern medicine. The most I can hope for is that you'll be born immune to the Rash as Sigrun and I are, that of all the nightmares you'll have to face, at least you'll be spared from the worst one._

 _This isn't our fault. I know that this isn't our fault, unlike everything Ingrid always used to worry about. Only the Rash made the world that I'm leaving to you…but the fact remains that I'm leaving it to you all the same. For all of this, though, I can't have any regrets about bringing you into it… or for making that possible, if you're reading this several generations down the line._

 _I hardly have anything of worth to leave you: our hunting skills, our tactics against the infected, a village free of monsters. What little I do have, however, I give to you with open hands._

 _Your ancestor,_

 _—_ _Aksel_

* * *

"Ak~sel! Are you doing that sappy stuff again?"

"It's a memento for our child," he answered, setting the pen aside without looking up. "I want to make sure that the pre-Rash world isn't forgotten."

A snort came from behind him. "Who _cares_ about the pre-Rash world?" The disdainful remark was accompanied by a rounded stomach lightly bumping against the back of his chair. "What matters is _now_. Besides, I don't see why you're wasting time writing a letter to the kid when you could just _tell_ him."

"But what if I die tomorrow?" Aksel reasoned. "Then I'm not going to be able to tell him _anything!_ "

"Aksel Eide, you are _not_ going to die tomorrow." Sigrun glared. "Because if you do, then I am going to follow you straight to Hel so I can personally drag you out by the ear."

"What about _his_ kid, though? And the one after that? And—"

"Oh, for— Yeah, stuff gets forgotten, but that's _life_. You keep burying your head in the past you're going to get eaten by something." In spite of her words, though, a hand came to rest on his shoulder in an uncharacteristically restrained gesture of affection. "Now stop wasting that candle, and come to bed."

Sigrun was right about some things—the world they had known was gone, and no amount of wishing or effort was going to bring it back. Before he did as she said, though, Aksel folded the letter neatly into an envelope addressed "To my descendants, so they might hear the things I'm no longer able to tell them."

* * *

The better part of a century and three generations away, the newly enlisted Private Sigrun Eide tucked the envelope neatly under her pillow before she finally commenced her unpacking.

* * *

 **A/N:** I've wanted to see these two interact ever since I re-read the prologue and it really hit me whose ancestor Aksel was.


	94. Give Up

**Prompt** **:** Give Up

 **Character:** Sigrun

* * *

It took more than an average trauma to faze a warrior of Dalsnes.

Nobody ever used that word anymore, but this was war. They were one of the last bastions of civilization, fighting against an ever-encroaching wave of darkness to keep the last vestiges of humanity alive. They suffered casualties. Soldiers came out of the field scarred mentally and physically. In this environment, even the children hardened up quickly.

Sigrun was only ten, and she'd already seen soldiers come back with missing limbs or eyes and seen friends lose their parents. She'd been there when her mother had been carried back in between two of her subordinates, covered in blood. Her father had used to entertain her with bedtime stories of a close encounter he'd had that had left half his face covered in bruises and sent one of his teeth flying. It had been less than a week since Sigrun herself had sustained an injury of her own, tumbling down a rocky slope she'd climbed on a dare—the fall had shredded her leg so badly that she'd had to be carried back, and was now forbidden to leave her bed without assistance for another two weeks at least.

Needless to say, she was very, very bored.

Her parents and Uncle Trond occasionally came in to see her, but hunting season was in full swing and they had work to do. As for her friends, most of them had managed only a few visits before they'd been banned, usually for daring her to do something that would tear her stitches. The doctors were busy, and besides, they were _boring_.

Well, at least they had left her with _something_ to entertain her. Books were rare and valuable these days, and most residents of Dalsnes preferred more _entertaining_ pursuits anyway, but if you were bedridden you were bedridden, and there were a handful of books that had been so popular that even the New World had a few copies to spare. Sigrun had already gone through most of her small bedside bookshelf and was just considering whether any of the kids' books she had in there were worth reading again when something caught her eye: a small tome, tucked away from the others in a shadowy dark corner.

 _Well_ , she figured, _why not._

* * *

As much as he would have liked to chuck off his uniform, head straight home and curl up in a hot bath with a good book, Trond somehow thought he ought to check on Sigrun first.

Books or no books, he knew she'd been bored. An energetic girl like that wanted to be running around outside, not confined to her bed day in and day out. Though she would certainly suffer worse if she chose to join the military (as she had been declaring her intention to do since she'd been old enough to talk), she wasn't in the military yet. Her parents were too busy to visit often—Hel, _Trond_ was too busy to visit often. Still, if all three of them at least tried it might actually _amount_ to something.

"Sigrun?" he called, rapping his fist smartly against the door. "It's—"

For one of the first times in Trond's life, words failed him.

There, curled up against her headboard, her bandaged leg sticking out over the top of the covers, was Sigrun, a knife in her hand and a defensive snarl on her face. Trond raised an eyebrow, and was about to ask whether she'd been attacked by a troll in her own room, when he noticed what was on the floor.

Sprawled over the floorboards close to the door, so far away that it must have been hurled, was a book. It wasn't just the book that caught his attention, however—it was the fact that a dagger had been shoved through its heart. Curious, Trond bent to pick it up.

The cover alone was enough to tell him that this was not just any book: it was a survivor from Year 0. Though most of its original gloss had faded to a dull drabness, there was still enough left of the original picture for Trond to be able to make out an apple, held in a pair of cupped hands. Eyebrow still raised, he looked back to Sigrun, who'd pushed the bookshelf away with considerable force.

"I'm never reading again."

* * *

 **A/N:** This bit of silliness goes back to a joke in the comments that got out of hand.


	95. Advertisement

**Prompt:** Advertisement

 **Characters:** Aksel, Sigrun L.

 **Ship:** Implied Aksel/Sigrun L.

 **Continuity:** Prequel to "Give Up"

* * *

The apocalypse had happened a little too quickly for Aksel to be able to think about which vestiges of humanity's knowledge he would have chosen to survive. Books on medicine and engineering, he thought, things that could one day help them rebuild the world they'd lost—or, failing all else, at least help them survive long enough to _think_ about rebuilding it. Or maybe their cultural heritage, things they could no longer keep alive by oral tradition alone, the Poetic Edda and the like—the gods were helping them out, after all; it seemed only fair to pay them due respect in turn. He also wouldn't have said no to some of the great literature from other parts of the world, if nothing else to remind their remote descendants that once upon a time the world had been bigger than Norway, or even bigger than just Dalsnes. There was, however, one thing Aksel could say with absolute certainty:

"Christian, you are the state lottery, the cure for cancer, and the three wishes from Aladdin's lamp all rolled into one."

He never would have chosen _this_ one to survive. "Sigrun," he groaned, even as he felt the blood rising to his face. "Do we have to do this _again?_ "

Her wicked grin over the top of the book as she flipped to another page informed him all too well of the futility of that question. "He reaches between my legs and pulls on the blue string..."

"Sigrun..."

"...gently pulls my tampon out..."

"Please stop."

"...and tosses it into the nearby toilet."

" _Why?_ " Aksel was whimpering, his hands over his ears. "Why do you do this to me?"

"Because," Sigrun said smugly, closing the book with a snap and leaning forward with an impish grin. "You've been a bad boy," her fingers closed around a lock of his hair and yanked, hard, "and now you must be punished."

The cliché hit him right in the higher thought processes even as he tumbled to the bed with a yelp. "Can't you just whip me or something?" he pleaded, rubbing his scalp. "I think it'd be more merciful than this."

"Oh please." She let go of his hair. "It's way too much fun to see you squirm." She flipped to another page. "My inner goddess—"

Suddenly breaking free of his lethargy, Aksel lunged up, snatched the book from her hands, and threw it across the room, where it hit the wall with a loud _thunk_. Rather than getting angry, Sigrun burst out into raucous laughter.

"I was wondering what it would take to make you grow a bit of backbone."

"Why do you keep that trash anyway?" Aksel was still eyeing the book warily, as if afraid it might jump up and attack him. "I _know_ you know how horrible it is."

"That's the point, dummy." She gave him a shove. "It's _hilarious_."

"I think you ought to have your sense of humor checked." His eyes narrowed as another thought occurred to him. "Sigrun? What did you do with the _other_ book?"

"Oh, I just left it on the kiddie bookshelf."

His eyes narrowed further. " _Sigrun..._ "

" _What?_ It's not like there's anything dirty in _that_ one. Besides, our kids gotta have _something_ to show them what they have to look forward to."

"...hate you..." he muttered—the only comeback he could manage at the moment.

"Sure," Sigrun answered, leaning down to brush her lips against his ear. "You just keep telling yourself that."

* * *

 **A/N:** In which I continue with this bit of ridiculousness.


	96. Into the Storm

**Prompt:** Into the Storm

 **Characters:** Mikkel, Michael, Sigrun

 **Warnings:** Permanent injury, gore

* * *

In spite of the fact that he was "technically" younger, Mikkel had always liked to think of himself as the sensible one.

 _He_ was the one who'd always advised caution, who'd suggested hanging back to plan a course of action while Michael was already charging in between two fighting dogs, or two fighting drunkards, or straight into the jaws of a hungry grossling. _He_ was the one who always ended up patching up Michael's injuries afterward, while his twin grinned impishly and goaded "C'mon, you had fun—admit it!" And of course, when their siblings were born, _he_ was the one who ended up doing all of the babysitting, in addition to cleaning up the inevitable messes that resulted when Michael joined in their play—like another kid himself.

In school, Mikkel was the one who actually paid attention to his studies while Michael wasted time playing sports and goofing off with friends. Mikkel didn't have any friends, only his books. Even though they looked enough alike, many people had a hard time believing they were brothers—let alone twins.

It therefore rankled when Michael sailed through the military ranks, while Mikkel struggled to hold down even the most basic of jobs.

"So how's all that fancy book learning working out for you now, eh, little brother?"

"Shut up," Mikkel said, bluntly, and went back to shoveling manure.

"Shouldn't we wait and gauge the situation a bit more?" he asked a few years later, while Michael was gearing up to join the front lines at Kastrup—the Great Reclamation, they were calling it. "The mild winter—"

"Since when has waiting and gauging the situation ever worked out for you?" Michael, with his usual impish grin and his usual carefree flippancy, sailing through life while leaving Mikkel to follow after him and clean up his mess. He stopped to clap Mikkel on the shoulder one last time before stepping out. "We're going to come out of this battle as heroes, you'll see—yes, even you, little brother."

The unsaid part, the medic who was too much of a coward to take the field, hung in the air between them after Michael's parting words.

* * *

Mikkel took his time in carefully cleaning and putting away each instrument. He knew that he'd have to step out soon and give the news, but good surgical instruments required care and there was no telling when they'd next be needed again—the work was important enough that he felt justified in taking his time with it. Besides, Mikkel himself needed a little more time in organizing his thoughts.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he asked—aloud, in spite of the fact that he knew his patient could not answer. Even a day earlier—even a few _hours_ earlier—and he might have been able to give some real help. Mikkel might not have had much in the way of credentials, but they had antibiotics and he knew how to drain a wound; it should not have ever come to this point.

Sigrun's only answer was a low groan, her eyebrows creasing in pain—though he'd sedated her as heavily as he dared, it seemed her body still knew that something was horribly wrong. Sighing, he packed the last of the scalpels and syringes into his bag and was just standing up to leave when something caught his eye.

A scrap of paper still lay on the desk, barely big enough for the single name that was written on it in print so neat he still refused to believe that Sigrun had actually put pen to paper herself.

" _I'm keeping you on my mutinist risk list though._ "

" _You have a list?_ "

Had she neglected to tell him because she didn't trust him?

There was no point dwelling on it now; what was done was done. So Mikkel simply closed his bag, gathered up his bloodied apron and gloves, and left Sigrun asleep on the floor, the bandaged stump of her arm propped up against a single spare cushion.

* * *

"I still don't see why you want to do this."

"Don't be such a stick in the mud, little brother. It's for posterity!"

"So you've said." Mikkel could feel his mouth stretching out into a thin line, the familiar dread and despair pooling in his stomach. "What I don't understand is why you want future generations to remember _this_."

"We learn from our mistakes, little brother. We learn from our mistakes." He grinned into the camera, holding up two fingers in a victory sign. Mikkel refused to smile—they wanted to leave a record for posterity, let them see him as he was. There was nothing heroic about any of it as far as he was concerned.

To any future reader looking at the documentary of the Battle of Kastrup and the photograph of two brothers who'd survived, it would look as if Michael's free hand was wrapped around his twin's shoulders in a gesture of affection. Only Mikkel could feel how much of his brother's weight he was actually taking, how off-balance he still was on his prosthetic leg.

Mikkel had no doubt they'd tell the tale of how Michael had lost his limb in a heroic last-ditch stand at the Battle of Kastrup. He somehow doubted they'd include the part where Michael had been hauled back unconscious, his leg shredded down to meat with shards of bone sticking out, how Mikkel had ended up behind the front lines with little more than a hacksaw. At that point their medics had been stretched thin on the ground; there had been no one else. Mikkel had set his jaw and done what he had to, but he would never be able to think of himself as a hero—nor the Danish military, for sending good men and women into a battle they had no hope of winning.

The camera flash left spots in his eyes as the photographer captured whatever he thought was worthy of the veneration of future generations.

* * *

Sigrun leaned heavily on his arm as he helped her walk from the sleeping area, and Mikkel let her. Though there was nothing wrong with either of her legs, infection and trauma alike had left her weak. That first night, Mikkel had even feared that they would lose her: she'd been burning up, delirious, calling names he didn't recognize, so feverish he'd had to send out Reynir or Emil several times in the night for balls of packed snow to press against her body. Whatever disdain he might have held for her gods, Mikkel had still felt his heart freeze when Sigrun had addressed a Valkyrie that only she could see.

In the end, though, she'd pulled through, as she always did. Impossible to tell what she was thinking: regret? The edge of despair? Mikkel guessed that he would never know.

"Anything else the old folks wanted us to pick up out here?" she asked as she let go of Mikkel's arm and gingerly lowered herself into her seat.

"No. They've arranged for a quarantine ship to take us home as soon as we can make it to the coast."

She nodded. Sweat stood out on her face from the strain of walking, but her eyes were clear and she was ready to take command. "The scout did his job?"

Tuuri nodded. "We have a clear route to the coast."

"Then let's go."

Sigrun was alive. Not whole, but alive, and on the mend. Michael was alive, and waiting for him back home on the farm. Mikkel had never been one to run headlong into open danger; he could not follow them. The only thing he could do was wait outside and hope that they would come out—and that he would still be able to help when they did.

* * *

 **A/N:** As I was writing this it occurred to me that maybe Sigrun rubs Mikkel the wrong way because she reminds him a bit too much of someone _else_.


	97. Safety First

**Prompt:** Safety First

 **Characters:** Tuuri, Reynir, Mikkel

* * *

Protocol or no protocol, wearing a mask for hours on end was _annoying_.

Tuuri had learned quickly that it was a good idea to eat as much as she could at breakfast time before the rest of the team went out, lest she start feeling peckish at any point during the day—even if they hadn't been short on food, it wasn't exactly possible to munch on a snack through a glass plate. Not to mention how annoying it could get if one's nose started itching, or if it was on too tight and the edges started to press into one's face, leaving ugly red marks after the mask was taken off.

Not for the first time, Tuuri wondered why the gods hadn't seen fit to bless her with immunity— _Onni_ was understandable, but her? It just wasn't _fair_. What's more, she bet that Reynir was currently wondering the exact same thing—he'd had a brief sneezing fit not ten minutes after the others had left, and now the inside of his mask was fogged up with mist and other things Tuuri didn't care to think about.

"Ugh." Reynir wiped the side of his mask—ineffectually, since it wasn't the _outside_ that needed cleaning. "Why'd it have to happen right _then?_ Stupid nose..."

"Look, if it's bothering you that much, then take it off and clean it." It took her a moment of fishing through the laundry basket, but she eventually managed to find a clean rag, which she held out to him. "I'm sure it won't—"

"That would be highly ill-advised."

Tuuri jumped so hard she nearly toppled out of her seat. Mikkel had re-entered the office while they'd been talking, a stack of freshly-decontaminated books in hand, and Tuuri wondered with a spark of resentment how such a big man was able to move so _quietly_. Nor did it help that his face was bare of anything save his sideburns, the indisputable mark of a man's immunity. _Show-off_ , she thought.

" _What_ is going to get at us in here?" Tuuri argued—more because she was feeling exasperated and stubborn than because she actually thought that removing their masks would be a good idea. "The tank is sealed. It's not like a troll is going to come in through the window."

"It's really not that bad," Reynir protested weakly. "I can—"

"Doesn't matter, it's protocol—and what's more, Reynir is a civilian. You should _not_ be encouraging him to such recklessness."

"It's fine, I wasn't actually going to—"

"You know," Tuuri said slyly, "I think that there are a lot of things that the people who came up with protocol didn't foresee. Like, say, there being information on a Rash vaccine nearby..."

"Uh, Mikkel?"

" _Very_ good use of precedent. I do, however, have to point out that the possible salvation of the Known World is in no way comparable to the regrettable but minor discomfort of sneezing into a mask—"

" _Mikkel! Tuuri!_ Something's going on outside!"

This time, at least, Reynir's shout conveyed enough urgency that the others halted their bickering and rushed to look out the windshield. At first, there was nothing to be seen—they'd set up camp within sight of a lightly forested area, and the winding path the others had taken disappeared behind a low hill after only a few paces. Reynir, however, was tense, his shoulders stiff and his fingers gripping the dashboard as he kept his gaze fixed on a spot whose significance only he had noticed.

"What is it?" Tuuri asked, quietly—the inside of the tank was now nearly as silent as the outside.

"Where are the animals?" Reynir whispered back. Tuuri looked; the birds, rabbits, and squirrels that had been going about their business all day with no fear of humans were indeed gone, the stillness nearly invisible until one actually _noticed_ it. Tuuri shivered. So did Kisa.

There was the sound of a gunshot.

"Tuuri." Mikkel's voice was for once devoid of the usual dry sarcasm she had quickly learned to discern in his speech. "Start the engine."

Fingers trembling slightly, Tuuri did as told. She might not be allowed out in the field, but she did at least know that Sigrun didn't want anyone firing shots unless it was a matter of life or death. Mikkel disappeared into the back. Reynir buckled himself into the passenger seat. Tuuri stared over the wheel.

Their only warning was a brief flicker of movement in the shadows of the trees. Then, their three crewmates burst over the hill, being chased by a many-legged troll.

Reynir didn't scream, but he did jump so violently that he jerked against his seatbelt, and Tuuri couldn't blame him for that. That troll was almost half as big as their tank, and it looked to be nearly nipping at their heels. Lalli was in the lead, a trickle of blood running down his face from under his hairline, dragging a wild-eyed Emil along behind him—the Swede was staggering, his pant leg in tatters, his breath coming in wheezing gasps, and his free hand pressed to his side. Sigrun brought up the rear, and even as they watched she turned with a snarl, knife in hand, and plunged her dagger directly into the troll's eye.

It reared up on its hind legs with an unearthly shriek, throwing their captain a good ten meters through the air, but she had bought them enough time: Lalli and Emil had made it to the other side of the tank, and a glance in the remaining rear view mirror showed Mikkel helping them into the back. In the split second it had taken Tuuri to look away and back, Sigrun had rolled onto her back and the troll had caught up to where it had thrown her. Even as it bore down on her, however, she had her dagger in both hands and was stabbing upward. It fell forward limp, and Sigrun managed to roll away again just in time to avoid being crushed under its body.

"Step on it!" she yelled as she staggered toward the tank—the way she was moving said that she had not gotten out unscathed, but Tuuri did as ordered, and no sooner had she finished the turn than she saw why: several more trolls were now pouring from the woods. Watching through the rearview mirror, Tuuri saw Sigrun grab Mikkel's outstretched hand and pull herself into the back before the door slammed shut.

The tank was not fast, but there was still some daylight left and the trolls left off chasing them shortly after they'd cleared the trees. It was with no small amount of relief that Tuuri found the retreat spot and parked.

 _Masks on_ , she knew—no breathing unfiltered air until they were in a cleared area and everyone had been decontaminated, and there would be no getting through _that_ until after they'd parked and Mikkel had gotten a chance to see to everyone's injuries.

It wasn't until evening that they finally got to settle. Lalli had crawled under Tuuri's bed and fallen asleep, a huge bandage wound around his head; Emil was in a camp chair with his leg propped up on a stool; Sigrun was forbidden from exertion until her broken ribs had had a chance to mend and looking none too happy about it; and dinner was on the stove. Reynir breathed an audible sigh of relief as he eased his mask off and took the first breath of fresh air they'd had all day.

Tuuri joined him in short order; after hours upon hours of breathing her own recycled air, even Mikkel's slop smelled amazing.

"Now," Mikkel held up the bowls, "if you would all care to get started on dinner."


	98. Puzzle

**Prompt:** Puzzle

 **Characters:** Lalli, Emil, Tuuri

* * *

"Here." Tuuri was startled away from her transcription by a piece of paper being slammed down down atop her stack of carefully-arranged books.

"Huh?" She turned to look up at the owner of the offending hand, who turned out to be Emil—his uniform muddied, his hair singed at the tips, and the beginnings of a bruise forming beneath his eye. Tuuri smiled at him beneath her mask. "Did you want me to transcribe something for you too? I didn't know you were that into reading."

"I don't want something to read. I want to know how to say all of these things in Finnish."

Curiosity piqued, Tuuri took the paper. It was filled top to bottom with words and phrases, in the smallest and neatest handwriting Emil could manage. The further she read, the higher her eyebrow rose. Finally, she set it aside and once more turned to face Emil, who was still standing behind her and looking over her shoulder. "Don't you think you're being a little... ah... _ambitious?_ "

"How so?" He crossed his arms. "I just want to learn a few phrases, not write poetry or anything. How hard can it be?"

"Emil, you couldn't even learn Icelandic. What makes you think Finnish is going to be any easier?"

" _Excuse me_ , I didn't learn Icelandic because I didn't _feel_ like learning Icelandic. I _could_ have learned any language I wanted, at any time I wanted." Emil tossed his hair, setting off a shower of sparkles in spite of the ash. "And right now, I want to learn Finnish."

"Oooookay." Tuuri smiled at him again as she took the piece of paper, but in all honesty, she was fighting the urge to laugh. "I'll get this back to you by tonight. You can study it over dinner."

When Tuuri handed it back to him, the look on his face was the same one he'd had the last time that Sigrun had asked him if he was ready to help her bash in some troll heads. Nevertheless, he stumbled his way through the list she'd made, letting her correct his pronunciation only to mangle it all over again the next time he tried, and Emil spent the rest of that night bent over the desk with that ink-smeared piece of paper spread out in front of him.

"He's being weird," Lalli said the next day, having returned from his scouting run only to find Emil already up, running his finger over the list again with his tongue sticking out from between his teeth.

"He wanted to learn some Finnish." Tuuri was already stacking up some books for that day's work, and wasn't inclined to listen to Emil trying to stumble his way through the simplest phrases yet _again_.

"Oh."

"I know, right? To think _Emil_ would want to learn _Finnish_. What would he even—"

"I want to learn Swedish."

She froze. "What."

"I want to learn Swedish."

"Lalli, you could have learned Swedish in Keuruu. You didn't want to. I don't know—"

"So what's up with you and your cousin, short stuff?" Tuuri jumped in her seat and looked up, only to see Sigrun leaning in through the door frame with a grin on her face.

"Well, Lalli was talking about maybe learning a bit of Swedish. I don't think he's really serious, though... I mean, he's never bothered to learn a language before..."

"I like your initiative, twig!" Sigrun delivered a hearty slap to the back before he could get away, and Lalli hunched his shoulders as he backed into the nearest available corner. "Keep up the good work, I expect you to understand a few things I say next time we're in the field!" She ducked back out the door with a wave to get her breakfast.

Tuuri looked at Lalli. "Well, I guess you're learning Swedish."

* * *

She'd given him the sorts of words he'd need to use in the field: troll, beast, giant; danger; ghost—and Lalli _wanted_ to learn these words; he'd already failed his team because he couldn't communicate with his captain. Tuuri was right, he _needed_ to be able to talk to Sigrun... but there was also someone else he needed to talk to in a completely different way.

There were words, words he needed, words he couldn't find even in his native Finnish, let alone some foreign language he'd hardly ever heard spoken before this mission. Even the ones he did know he needed, he didn't know how to find—how to ask Tuuri for the Swedish to say "I'm sorry"?

So he didn't.

Emil couldn't study while he was in the field; he'd left the piece of paper with the precious Swedish words sitting on top of his bunk. So rather than go to bed right away, Lalli picked it up and pulled it down into his sleeping place with him, reading by the faint light that was seeping in through the bunkroom door.

* * *

The sound of loud voices woke him. Lalli curled into himself and squeezed his eyes shut; he wanted to sleep some more, and it couldn't be time for him to go out yet. Instead of abating, though, the voices got progressively louder—Emil, he thought, and Tuuri.

"Lalli? Lalli!" Footsteps approached, and then Tuuri's head appeared under the bed.

"What?" He rolled over slightly, glaring at his cousin.

"Have you seen Emil's list? He says he can't find it."

"..."

"Oh that's fine, I didn't think you knew where it was. Emil probably just forgot where he put it. I'll make him a new one if he hasn't found it by tomorrow."

Thankfully, Tuuri went away with her assumption without asking anything more, and Lalli closed his hand more tightly around the paper he'd brought with him under Tuuri's bunk. He'd _meant_ to put it back where he'd found it before Emil returned, but had accidentally drifted off without realizing he still had it in his hand. He'd better return it the next time he was left in the bunk alone. Hopefully Emil would just think he'd misplaced it.

* * *

"I swear that thing gets up and walks around when I'm not looking."

"What's wrong, Emil? Did you lose your list _again?_ "

" _It's not my fault!_ I left it right here! On top of the bed! I even left it under a book this time so I'd know I didn't misplace it!"

"Then ask Mikkel. I bet he moves a lot of stuff around when he cleans."

Emil's only response was a lot of incoherent mumbling.

"Look, I'll make you a second one as soon as I finish this transcription. That might take me a while, though, so if there's a word you want to learn in the meantime..."

Lalli might not have been able to understand what they were saying, but he still curled into his blankets with a guilty look on his face.


	99. Solitude

**Prompt:** Solitude

 **Characters:** Reynir, Sigrun, Mikkel

 **Warnings:** Graphic description of injury/infection, talk of amputation/permanent injury

* * *

It was hard, in this situation, to pin the blame on any one person or circumstance—they'd both neglected it, Sigrun to take care with her wounds or inform him that she was suffering complications, Mikkel to check up on her regularly regardless. Still, he could not help but blame himself. It didn't matter that she should have spoken up. It didn't matter that he'd thought she was on the mend. It didn't matter that they'd had other things to deal with, a string of bad luck that had included multiple people fainting for no apparent reason, unexplained nosebleeds, and both Lalli and Reynir claiming that they were under attack by an army of invisible opponents. He was the medic, and it was his job to see to everyone's health. He still should have checked, and now Sigrun was the one who was about to pay the price.

"I don't suppose there's anything else you can do."

"No." Sigrun had stripped down to a sleeveless undershirt and was lying atop a table in the infirmary of the abandoned military base, her eyes squeezed shut and her face turned away while Mikkel tightened a tourniquet around her upper arm. "Putting it off will only postpone the inevitable, and risk your health besides. This needs to be done—it's past the point where it's going to get better."

Unfortunately, Mikkel spoke the truth—Sigrun's arm had blackened in places, and even in the unaffected areas the skin had begun to blister and slough off. There was no saving the arm. Still, it was impossible to do this without regrets—after several months in the field with her he'd gotten to know Sigrun well enough to understand that she lived for the military, and for a soldier, the loss of a limb was a career-ending injury.

"You are ready?" A medic could not afford empathy, least of all when it was necessary to make difficult decisions to save a life.

She did not speak, only nodded. Knowing that that was all the consent she was going to give, and that it was enough, Mikkel swabbed antiseptic over the crook of her arm before picking up a syringe to administer a powerful anesthetic—she shouldn't feel a thing. He touched the needle to her skin—

—and nearly impaled his own finger when he was jarred out of focus by a frantic pounding on the door.

Mikkel swore. He'd warned the others that they were not to interrupt him unless it was to tell him that the base was on fire. On the off-chance that the base actually _was_ on fire, though, he set down the needle, removed his gloves, and opened the door.

The base wasn't on fire. One wouldn't know it from the look on Reynir's face, though; from the way he was gasping for breath as he grasped Mikkel's apron, one would have thought that he was about to commit a gruesome murder rather than amputate a limb to save a life.

"You can't do it!" he pleaded, confirming Mikkel's theory as to what this was about.

"What does _he_ want?" Sigrun demanded from behind him a few seconds later.

"Give me a minute," he said to her, before placing his hands on Reynir's shoulders and steering him out of the room.

"Don't do this," Reynir repeated as soon as Mikkel had him outside with the door closed firmly behind them.

"Reynir." Sugar-coating this would not help anyone. "Sigrun will die if this infection is allowed to run its course. I don't relish doing this, but it's her arm or her life. We have no other options."

"But what if we did?"

Mikkel crossed his arms. "Do you have medical training or supplies about which you have not informed me? Because if you do, now would be the time."

As expected, Reynir shook his head. "No. I don't have any of that, and I know you won't believe me, but I _can_ help."

"Let me guess. This has something to do with magic."

Reynir nodded.

"Reynir." Mikkel pinched the bridge of his nose. "I'd think you'd at least think of Sigrun. She's not only about to lose a limb, this will end a career she loves. If you get her hopes up, it will only make it that much harder when I end up having to amputate anyway."

"Ask her."

It looked like Reynir wasn't backing down. Sighing, Mikkel led him back into the room.

"He wants to try to help you," he explained, switching over to Danish. "With... magic."

"He _can_ help?"

"He claims as much."

She nodded, pushed herself up on one elbow. "Let him try."

"Sigrun." He leaned down toward her, lowering his voice. "This is your choice, but I have to warn you that you'll be gambling with your life. That infection is only going to get worse, and the worse it gets—"

"Yeah, I know. You're a godless heathen." Sigrun gave him a ghost of her old grin. "But a mage offers me a chance, seems kind of silly not to take it."

"Very well. I'll give him a day. But if there's no improvement after that, or if I judge your life is in immediate danger, we go ahead. Is that acceptable?"

"Yeah, yeah." Some of the old spark had come back into her eyes, and as much as Mikkel had missed seeing Sigrun as her old self, it still gave him a small wrench to think that that hope would soon be crushed. Nevertheless, he said nothing more, only removed the tourniquet and watched Sigrun wince as the blood rushed back into her arm.

* * *

Reynir had no idea what he was doing.

As a mage, he'd had no training, no guidance. He still couldn't have said how he'd done half the things that he had over the course of their journey, nor whether he'd be able to repeat them if needed, and while there was some instinctive part of him that knew that he _could_ heal, whether he could pull it off with no training was another matter entirely. Still, he had to try. Sigrun had gotten hurt in saving his life; the least he could do was try to save her arm.

That morning, he'd prayed to the gods for guidance. " _Sigrun would like you to be more assertive in your prayers,_ " Mikkel had passed on to him some weeks ago, when he'd been cowering inside of the tank for fear he'd given offense to the gods he barely knew. " _She made a clear point of the disdain of your gods for weaklings._ " The older man had barely been able to contain his laughter; clearly he thought their religion was a joke. Still, Reynir had no doubt that Sigrun actually had said what Mikkel had claimed, and that her advice was sound.

One did not cower when appealing to the gods. Still, he could not pretend that he knew what he was doing.

" _Please,_ " he'd asked as he'd knelt in the shade of a budding tree, hands clasped in supplication as he'd looked to the sky. " _I know I don't have a lot to offer you now, that I've squandered your blessing. But I promise myself to you, body and soul, for the rest of my life, in return for your guidance now._ "

Of course, now that the moment of truth had come Reynir didn't feel confident, or like he had the guidance of the gods. Instead he only felt stupid.

It didn't help his confidence level that Sigrun was watching him intently, eyebrow raised, which Reynir found odd; she'd always made a point of looking the other direction when Mikkel had tended her wounds. Mikkel had cleaned and re-bandaged her arm prior to leaving the room, and now it was just the two of them sitting side by side, Sigrun with her arm resting atop the table while Reynir sat with his hands hovering over her and his mind blank, hoping that a solution would come to him if only he focused hard enough.

"I should probably warn you I've never actually tried to heal before." How had he done it all the other times he'd used magic? "You might end up losing your arm after all."

Desperation bubbled up in his stomach at the thought that he might fail without even having a chance to try. _Getting her hopes up..._ Mikkel had been right. Magic or no magic, the only thing Reynir could accomplish was putting off the inevitable, risking her health, multiplying her anguish after giving her hope...

"Hei." A finger was tapping his shoulder. Reynir looked up, straight into Sigrun's intense violet eyes. She said something else, "Stop being stupid" if the inflection was anything to go by. He sighed, looked down...

There was a golden light glowing around his hands. It was just like...

...just like that time he'd held off the ghosts.

 _Stop thinking._ Reynir had asked the gods for guidance; now he must trust them to guide him.

" _Switch your drawing medium to blood in the future, your gods are_ _very_ _fond of that._ "

 _Stop laughing, Mikkel. This isn't as funny as you think it is._

He looked around, but Mikkel had packed up his instruments; he probably didn't trust Reynir to handle anything sharp. Looking around for an alternative, his eyes landed on Sigrun's dagger. When he gestured for it, she put it in his hand without question.

Mikkel had told him that infectious material did not live for long outside of a host. Reynir also took the time to clean the blade thoroughly with the antiseptic that Mikkel had not deemed too dangerous to leave in his immediate vicinity. Still, Reynir could not help but think that this blade had killed trolls, that it was more often than not soaked in the blood of something that would make the tiniest scratch deadly, and though his mind knew better he still could not help but feel that he was taking a horrible risk.

 _Well, here goes nothing_ , he thought as he sliced the blade across his palm.

* * *

"Of all the foolish—!" Mikkel was reacting about as well as expected, and unfortunately Reynir could not get away from him while the man was tending the wound on his palm. Unbidden tears sprang to his eyes at the sting of the antiseptic, but Reynir bit his lip and choked back the whimper he wanted to voice. Mikkel wasn't even being rough, really. Hands were just sensitive.

"You are aware," Mikkel continued, "that _any_ open wound, no matter how small, provides an avenue for the Rash to get into your body? That if a troll or beast gets anywhere _near_ you before this heals, then mask or no mask, your life is forfeit?"

"I know." Reynir finally turned away, unable to keep looking at the jaggedly torn skin—he'd seen some pretty gruesome things in his life, but it was different when the torn, bloodied flesh was his own. "I just had to."

"You people and your superstitions are going to be the death of me. Not two weeks until we're due for pickup, and you still can't seem to keep yourselves out of trouble." He seemed to be talking to himself now as he wound a bandage around Reynir's hand, so Reynir did not answer. He certainly wasn't going to express regret for what he'd done.

"There." Mikkel tied off the bandage. "Now keep it clean, for the sake of whatever gods you think told you to do such a foolhardy thing. The last thing I want is to have to amputate _two_ limbs before this mission is over."

Reynir smiled weakly. "I don't think that will be a problem."

Dinner that night was both quiet and tense. It hadn't taken long for it to get around what Reynir had tried to do, or that Mikkel had disapproved, and the two of them said very little to each other while they ate. Sigrun seemed cheerful enough, but her movements were devoid of their usual energy, and her bad arm, once again tied up in a sling with runes of healing written over it in Reynir's own blood, was visible for all to see. Shortly after finishing her meal, she yawned and retreated to her bed, leaving Reynir to once again wonder whether he'd done the right thing.

Only morning would tell. Shortly after Sigrun had gone to bed Reynir, unwilling to endure any more questions from the others, followed. He walked as quietly as he was able, but when he opened the door to the bunk, the light shining into the room revealed that he needn't have worried: Sigrun had not gone to sleep, but was lying in her bed staring at the roof of the tank.

For a moment, Reynir only stood in the doorway. Her eyes flicked to him, but then went back toward the ceiling. She let out a sigh.

 _For O_ _ðinn's sake, she doesn't bite._ Reynir cleared his throat. "Nervous?" he blurted out.

She turned to look at him again, a blank look on her face.

"O-of course you are, that was a stupid question. Forget I said anything." He sank down onto his bedding with a groan, burying his face in his hands.

She shifted her weight a bit and spoke, waving her good hand. Reynir couldn't understand any of it, of course—maybe a word here and there, but no way to string the sentences together into something that made sense.

"You know," Reynir spoke into the darkness after she fell silent, "when I first got here I was terrified of you. But I don't think you liked me too much either, so I suppose that's fair." He laughed softly. "Still, you were the one who protected me when I got in trouble. And I might be able to do something about it now, so... I guess that's fair too."

Morning would tell. For the time being, they would just have to have faith.

* * *

 **A/N:** My original conception of this short was of an ending where Reynir definitely saved Sigrun from having her arm hacked off, but I decided while I was writing I liked the ambiguous ending better.


	100. End

**Prompt:** End

 **Characters:** Ensemble cast

* * *

It was impossible to say what had formed between them over the months they'd spent in the field.

They weren't family (or at least, _most_ of them weren't). They weren't lovers (or at least, _most_ of them weren't). According to some, many of them could not even truly be friends, given the differences in rank. That was fine, though; many of them had come up with their own words.

"This is my right-hand warrior!" Sigrun crowed when she dragged Emil over to meet her parents. "She's my mentor," Emil said in turn when his cousins wanted to know who the scary lady was and whether she could teach them anything. "He's... Emil," Lalli informed Onni when asked about his new friend, and only those who knew him very well were able to catch the small smile on his face.

Even the ones who hadn't named their relationships all had something to say: "He was like a big brother when my actual big brother wasn't there." "He made the weird ghosts go away." "She saved my life." "I had to babysit _everyone_."

Not many of them were introspective enough to muse on what they had become. Still, as they parted ways at the station, they could not help but regret that it was ending.

"I hope you _never_ get the urge to do something like that again," Onni informed his cousins as they boarded the train that would take them to the dock, and from there to their home.

"No no, I'm good," Emil insisted as he followed his aunt and uncle, one cousin on each limb. Still, he could not help but look back, a wistful expression creeping into his eyes.

"Good vacation," Sigrun informed Trond and her parents after she'd finished her report. "I almost don't want to go back to work now."

"You don't look as sour as usual," Michael Madsen informed his twin that night when they went out for a drink. "Want to tell me why?" "You're imagining things," Mikkel stated bluntly, but was nevertheless smiling as he lifted his beer to his lips.

"Well, it looks like you had an adventure that gave us all a run for our money!" Reynir's siblings laughed as they journeyed home—all of them, together, as a family. "If you had the chance, would you do it again?"

Reynir smiled then—a small, secret smile that nevertheless carried more than a hint of sadness. "In a heartbeat."

* * *

 **A/N:** I... finished! *wheezes, collapses, and coughs up a liberal amount of blood*


End file.
